


Sacrificial Lamb

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Coercion, Decapitation, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due to Arranged Marriage, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, First Time, Forced Marriage, Frottage, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Minor Braeden/Derek Hale, Minor Character Death, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Minor Violence, Misunderstandings, Panic Attacks, Peter Hale needs to use his words, Public Claiming, Rimming, So much angst, Stiles Is Seventeen, Stiles can't ride a horse, Underage Sex, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski, battlefield injuries, non-specific historical era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-07-23 18:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 54,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20012695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: The Alpha has a scruffy beard, unkempt hair and dazzling blue eyes. The scar on his face is raised, running down his cheek like a twisting, gnarled rope. Stiles knows that it came from the blade of Kate Argent herself, and that the Alpha got it fighting in the battle where Kate killed his lover, cutting his head clean from his neck, if the stories are to be believed.The Alpha lets Stiles look his fill, before indicating that Stiles should take the other couch, and Stiles does so, his father’s words echoing in his ears.  He can do this, can be pleasant and amenable. The lives of his people may depend on it. The Alpha spends long moments surveying him, before saying, “I like you, Stiles.”You don’t know me,Stiles wants to blurt out, but he bites his tongue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel you should know that I HAD A PLAN for Steter week - and this wasn't it!  
> But then my treacherous brain came along and whispered "Pssst - you know what would be great? Arranged Marriage Alpha Peter Virgin Frightened Prince Stiles Public Bedding Kinda Sorta Medieval AU"  
> My immediate response was DAMMIT BRAIN. YOU KNOW I WRITE FLUFF!  
> My brain's response was "But I WANTSSSS it!"  
> And here we are.  
> Will be updating this daily until the damn thing is done - I'm expecting it to come in between 30 - 40K
> 
> Please don't expect any level of historical accuracy, like _at all_ in this. It's - waves vaguely - in Ye Olde Times. That's all I got.
> 
> Also, this is slightly angstier than what i usually write, you've been warned - but I promise there's a HEA!

* * *

“You’re to marry the Alpha.”

Stiles goes rigid at the words, the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears as he stares at his father and blinks. “What? You said – you said you’d never –“

The king’s face remains carefully blank. “We need the werewolves to defeat the Argents. The Alpha has pledged his allegiance and his army in exchange for your hand. What was I supposed to do? Turn him down?”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Yes! You were supposed to turn him down! You were supposed to tell him I’m seventeen and the answer’s no!”

King John runs a hand through his hair. “He wants you. And if it means the safety of everyone in the kingdom? I’ve said he can have you.”

Stiles swallows convulsively. The Alpha. The Alpha’s, well. In a word? Terrifying. The man has a long scar running up one side of his face, and he wears a constant sneer like everything’s beneath him, like he’s mocking it all. His battle prowess is legendary, as is his sharp tongue. Stiles watched him slam one of his pack’s head into a wall because they disagreed with him once, before walking off without even checking to see if they were okay.

Stiles thinks if the Alpha ever shoves _his_ head into a wall, it’ll probably kill him.

“I won’t do it! you promised me! You swore!” Stiles clings to the old promise. His father vowed he’d never marry him off back when his mother died, said they’d rule together, and Stiles intends to make sure he keeps his word.

But it seems his father has other ideas. He stands from behind his desk and strides over, grabbing Stiles round the back of his neck and hissing in his ear. “You think I meant that? You were ten years old and your mother was dead, what was I supposed to say? But you’re old enough now, and you’ll listen to me. Everything depends on this. _Everything._ The Argents will be at the borders in a matter of weeks, and I won’t have a slaughter on my hands because you’re acting like a child. You’ll meet with the Alpha, and you’ll nod like a good boy and say _Yes Alpha_ , and you’ll _damned well do as you’re told_ , you hear me?” His hand squeezes harder, and his breathing is harsh in Stiles’s ear.

The last time Stiles’s father treated him this way, he was ten and had just set the curtains in the office on fire. His father had paddled him soundly and left him crying, and Stiles had never been so afraid in his life.

Until now.

He swallows and whispers, “Yes sir,” letting his head drop in surrender. His father takes Stiles’s submission for what it is, releasing the nape of his neck.

“If there was another way, you know I’d take it,” his father tells him, his tone softer now that he’s made his point.

Stiles rubs his hand across the tender flesh. “I mean, you could marry him?” he tries. His father glares and Stiles’s mouth shuts with a snap.

“The ceremony’s tomorrow at noon. You’ll spend some time this evening in the company of the Alpha, and he’ll tell you what’s expected. And whatever he wants, you’ll say…” his father prompts.

Stiles is a crown prince. He knows where his duty lies. “I’ll say Yes, Alpha.”

His father nods, satisfied, and walks out, leaving Stiles standing there in stunned silence.

It’s only after he’s left that Stiles realizes he doesn’t even know his new husband’s name.

* * *

Stiles knows as much as anybody knows about werewolves, which is to say, not that much. They’ve shared a border with Hale as far back as anyone can remember, but werewolves don’t share their secrets easily, like to keep their weaknesses hidden, and Stiles can understand why,

So really, all he knows for certain is that his new husband won’t try to turn him against his will, that it’s considered unthinkable, and that stories of wolves ripping peoples’ throats out at night while they sleep in their beds are nonsense, despite what the Argent Clan preaches.

It’s a start.

As for everything else though? Stiles has no idea. He doesn’t know how a pack works. He doesn’t know what his position in the royal household will be, whether he’ll rule alongside his husband or be locked away somewhere and ignored. He doesn’t know if he’ll be allowed home to visit.

He doesn’t know so much.

Will he and the Alpha share a bedroom? Will they share a _bed?_

Stiles does his best not to think about it as he counts down the hours till his meeting with the Alpha, not sure if he wants time to hurry up or stop altogether. Time considers Stiles’s opinion on the matter immaterial and continues to pass regardless. By the time his maid arrives to dress him, Stiles is a nervous wreck, despite his best efforts to appear calm.

Stiles lets himself be dressed in a clean linen shirt and fitted trousers, lets Erica fuss with his hair and pinch his cheeks to give them some color, lets himself be guided to one of the smaller dining areas. There are two werewolves standing at the door, and they both look him up and down curiously as he passes between them, through the curtain that serves as a doorway. 

When Stiles steps inside, there’s a meal set out for two and the Alpha is sprawled across one of the couches. Stiles hasn’t spent any time in the man’s company, has really only seen him in passing, so he takes the opportunity to take a decent look at his future husband.

Despite only being of a height with Stiles, the Alpha somehow fills the room with his presence. He’s wrapped in a fur cloak and wearing a plain shirt and worn leather pants, and he looks more like a wild man than the leader of his people. Stiles thought he was older somehow, but now that he’s close, he can see the man’s barely in his thirties. He’s clearly a warrior, corded with muscle, skin brown from hours spent outdoors, and there’s something about him that _screams_ predator. But he’s not unattractive, and Stiles clings to that small mercy.

The Alpha has a scruffy beard, unkempt hair and dazzling blue eyes. The scar on his face is raised, running down his cheek like a twisting, gnarled rope. Stiles knows that it came from the blade of Kate Argent herself, and that the Alpha got it fighting in the battle where Kate killed his lover - cutting his head clean from his neck, if the stories are to be believed. 

The Alpha lets Stiles look his fill, before indicating that Stiles should take the other couch, and Stiles does so, his father’s words echoing in his ears. He can do this, can be pleasant and amenable. The lives of his people may depend on it. The Alpha spends long moments surveying him, before saying, “I like you, Stiles.”

 _You don’t know me,_ Stiles wants to blurt out, but he bites his tongue.

“I’ve been watching you, in the week I’ve been here. You’re clever. And appealing, pretty little thing that you are. A little mouthy, but that’s what makes you interesting. And from a political viewpoint, you’re perfect. You’re daddy’s little treasure, and he’ll do anything to keep you safe. Marrying you means an unbreakable alliance.”

Stiles thinks that if he was really his father’s treasure he wouldn’t be here right now, but again, he says nothing. Peter must be able to sense his thoughts somehow, because he says, “Don’t be too hard on your father. He’s protecting the kingdom. That’s his job. Just like it is yours, which is why you’ve agreed to marry me.” He narrows his eyes, and Stiles feels his keen scrutiny. “You _did_ agree, didn’t you?”

Stiles’s mouth is as dry as the desert, and his heart’s thundering, racing with nerves, but he manages, “Yes, Alpha.”

The man breaks into a smile then, pleased. “You can call me Peter, since we’re to be wed.”

“Yes, Peter.”

He stiffens in fright when Peter moves off his couch and slots himself right next to Stiles, placing a broad palm on his chest. “Listen to your heart, beating almost out of your chest,” he says wonderingly. “Do I frighten you, Stiles?”

 _Yes_. Stiles wants to say. _Yes you frighten me._ _I’m seventeen and I’ve never even been kissed and now you want me as your own and I’m scared half to death._

He doesn’t, though. Instead he takes a couple of deep, calming breaths, and admits, “It’s just - I don’t know what to expect.”

Peter arches an eyebrow. “Surely you’re not that innocent. You know what has to happen after the ceremony, at least.”

Stiles nods, his eyes closing in embarrassment. “The…the claim,” he whispers.

Stiles wishes he could go back in time. Wishes that when Danny from the stables had offered to take Stiles to bed, show him what it could be like, he’d taken that offer. Wishes his first time wasn’t going to be in front of the court, in front of his _father._ Wishes this wasn’t happening at all.

If wishers were horses, beggars would ride.

“Such a ridiculous custom,” Peter muses, breaking him out of his reverie. “It’s not how we wolves do things. But when in Beacon…”

Stiles turns at that, faces his fiancé. “You mean everyone doesn’t…”

“Fuck their spouse with an audience?” Peter says bluntly, and Stiles cringes. “No. That’s a human thing. A _royal_ thing,” and there it is, that sneer. “God forbid some poor princess should delay having her cherry popped till after she’s had a conversation with her husband.” Peter’s tone drips with disdain, making Stiles wonder if maybe, if he words it right, he can at least get out of the public part of this.

“I think it’s cruel. Unnecessary.”

Peter nods. “As it happens, I agree.” Stiles barely has time to hope, just for a second, before Peter continues, “but as distasteful as I find the whole thing, I’ll still mount you, still put my claim on you, and I’ll do it on while the world and his wife watches. And do you know _why?_ ”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Because _your_ laws require it, little prince. And like hell will I let your father back out of this alliance after I’ve fought his war by claiming that the marriage isn’t valid.” Peter’s eyes flare red, just for a second, and Stiles pulls away in fright as Peter’s words strike home.

This is really going to happen.

Peter’s going to marry him and fuck him and then drag him away to somewhere strange, and it’s going to be forever. Stiles can’t help it when his hands start shaking. His breath begins to come in short gasps, his world spinning as terror tries to overtake him, and he barely has time to think _no, no, not this, not now_ before Peter places a firm hand on the nape of his neck. Stiles waits for the squeeze, waits to be told to calm down, grow up, stop making a fuss. But instead of squeezing like his father does, Peter just leaves the hand there, warm and comforting, as he says, “Breathe, Stiles. In, out, nice and slow,” and his other hand makes soothing circles against Stiles’s chest until the pressure eases, and Stiles is able to concentrate on Peter’s voice, calm and measured, and beat back the panic.

It takes him a couple of minutes to get himself together, and when he does he nearly spirals out of control again immediately, because he’s meant to be here nodding and agreeing, not making a fool of himself and making the Alpha rethink his choices. _What if he calls the agreement off?_ Stiles thinks wildly. His father will never forgive him.

“I’m - I’m sorry, it was just too much for a minute. Please don’t change your mind,” Stiles gets out, even though there’s nothing he wants more.

Peter looks more amused than anything. He keeps one hand on Stiles’s neck as he says, “Oh, you really are a scared little lamb, aren’t you?” He leans in and murmurs, “Just leave everything to me and do as I say, and you’ll be fine.”

Stiles isn’t sure whether Peter’s talking about the wedding, the claiming, or the rest of their lives, but he decides it doesn’t really matter. His answer will always be the same, regardless. He slumps a little in defeat – there’s no fighting this.

“Yes, Alpha.”

* * *

They talk, of travel arrangements and battle plans, of werewolf customs, things Stiles needs to understand before they leave for Hale so he doesn’t insult the pack unintentionally. Peter tells him it will take some time for Stiles to learn all he needs to know. “We do things very differently,” he says. Stiles doesn’t doubt it for a second. By the time Peter stops talking, Stiles’s head is swimming with new information.

People call Peter a warlord, but even with his limited knowledge, Stiles thinks that’s not quite right. As far as he knows, the Hale pack don’t attack, they defend. This would be an exception, and they’re doing it in exchange for Stiles’s hand.

It’s a lot to live up to.

He picks at his meal, barely able to eat, and Peter doesn’t press him to finish. Stiles is oddly comforted by that. Maybe he’ll have at least some say in things. Before Stiles leaves, Peter stops him with a hand on his arm. He gazes at Stiles intently and says, “Is there someone – a servant, a friend, who you trust, who you’re close with? And I do mean _close_.”

Stiles nods, thinking of Erica his maid, more of a friend that she probably should be, given their respective positions.

Peter hands him a small velvet bag, and his gaze flicks to the floor. “There’s an hour between the vows and the claiming, before the feast. Use that time to get ready. This will help – you’ll know what to do when you open it.” Stiles goes to open the bag, but Peter shakes his head. “Not here.”

Once he’s back in his room, Stiles hurries to open the bag. When he sees what’s inside his face flushes bright red and he drops it on the floor. The small bottle of oil rolls out, laying there like an accusation, and Stiles hurries to pick it up, even though there’s nobody to see. He braves another peek inside. He holds up the glass object that’s shaped like a teardrop, with a looped handle on one end. Peter was right - it doesn’t take a genius to work it out. He wonders briefly if this is meant to make it easier for him or for Peter, decides it doesn’t really matter. He’ll take all the help he can get.

There’s a knock at his door, and Stiles barely has time to shove the items into a drawer before his father peeks in the door. “How was it?” he asks.

Stiles knows his father wants him to say it’s fine, that Peter’s wonderful, that they hit it off immediately, but he just can’t form the words. He thinks about the oil, and the glass teardrop. “He’s. He’s intimidating, but he doesn’t seem cruel.” It’s the best he can come up with. It might be a complete lie, but for now Stiles chooses to believe it, because if he doesn’t, how will he be able to go through with this?

His father nods. “He’s a wolf, so he’s rough around the edges, that’s to be expected, but I think he’s a decent man at heart. I wouldn’t let this happen otherwise.”

 _Liar_. The thought appears in Stiles head with no warning, and he has to school his features not to show what he’s thinking. “No, I understand.”

“What did you talk about?”

 _How he’s going to mount me like a bitch in heat._ “He mainly told me the things I shouldn’t say or do, talked about when we’d leave once the battle with the Argents is over. He’s confident we’ll win.” _And by the way,_ _he gave me something to shove up my ass to make it easier to fuck me._

The king nods, seemingly reassured. “As long as you didn’t say no to anything he asked.”

Stiles doesn’t roll his eyes, or huff, or any of the things he wants to do. He doesn’t have the heart for it. “I was polite.”

There’s a moments awkward silence, and then his father closes the door and retreats. Other people, normal people, would probably hug their son, tell him they love him. But then again, other people wouldn’t be breaking their promise and marrying their son off to a virtual stranger, a werewolf, in the first place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys really don't like John, huh? So far I've had people want to bitch slap him, stab him, punch him, skewer him, choke him, and just plain make him suffer.  
> I love the way you're all leaping to baby's defense!

Stiles doesn’t sleep.

He lies on his bed and practices deep breathing and thinks about tomorrow. And every day after that.

He tries to think of anything positive about this. Peter’s certainly striking looking, despite the scar from an Argent blade. He’s not ancient, and Stiles genuinely is thankful for that. He doesn’t think he could take being married off to someone older than his father. And Peter spoke to Stiles civilly, and he didn’t mock Stiles when he panicked, wasn’t harsh.

He gave him the oil, and what he needed to prepare. He didn't have to.

It might not be terrible, if Stiles can just get through it.

Stiles can see tendrils of daylight creeping round the edges of the curtains, knows he has a little time before Erica comes in with breakfast. He fetches the glass plug and the oil. He looks at it, but in the end he puts it away again and tries to figure out how to ask Erica to help him without dying of shame. She’s been taking care of him for years, since he was a boy of twelve, and Stiles thinks he might actually be closer to her than his own father, but that doesn’t mean this won’t be awkward. There’s not going to be an easy way to ask her to grease him up and impale him.

But Stiles has seen the breadth of Peter’s shoulders, he’s seen the man’s thighs and muscled neck, and he doubts that there’s anything about Peter that isn’t girthy. So he’s going to steel his resolve, and he’s going to tell Erica what he needs her to do, and he’s going to hope he doesn’t cry like a baby while she does it, or she’ll never let him live it down.

* * *

When he asks her, haltingly explains what he’ll need in that hour before the claiming, his face burning with shame, Erica looks from the bag to Stiles, and pulls him in for a hug. “Oh, baby boy,” she coos.

Stiles blinks back tears. “Don’t. Don’t be nice to me. I can cope as long as nobody’s _kind_.”

Erica pulls away. “In that case, I’ll be my normal awful self.”

Stiles nods, grateful that she gets it. Still, he’s not expecting it when she slaps his ass briskly and tells him to hurry up and eat his breakfast, they only have five hours to make him presentable, does he know what a task that is, has he _seen_ himself in a mirror?

It’s exactly what he needs. “I look fine!” he protests, smiling despite himself.

“You’re all chicken arms and bandy legs, Stiles,” Erica accuses, even though they both know it’s not true – Stiles is lean, but he’s not weak. There’s muscle there. “And your _hair_ ,” she continues. “That’s an hour’s work right there. “Lucky for you I’m so good at making you pretty.” She tips him a wink.

Stiles winks back, and tries to eat at least some of his oatmeal. He manages half a dozen spoonfuls before he gives up, and Erica chivvies him into the bath that’s waiting for him. Tendrils of steam rise from the water, and he sees a small bag of herbs submerged in the tub. He raises a questioning eyebrow at Erica as he undresses. She shrugs. “They’ll help you relax, and soften the skin.”

Stiles climbs in the water. He can smell peppermint, and it’s pleasant, something to focus on. He inhales deeply, and lets himself drift, the tension leaving his muscles. He must doze a little, because the next thing he knows there’s water being poured over his face and Erica’s laughing at him. “Wake up, sweet prince.”

He grumbles as Erica dries him efficiently and then dresses him. She wraps him in his best tunic, the one that’s honey colored and makes him look less pale than he actually is, wrestles him into fitted trousers and black knee length boots, and then spends an _actual_ hour on his hair and face, combing and fluffing and drying and primping, plucking stray eyebrows, adding the barest touch of rouge despite his protests.

Once he’s dressed, she disappears into his dressing room and comes back holding the gold and topaz circlet that he never wears, the symbol of his royalty, and his formal cloak. Stiles goes to protest, but she fixes him with a look. “You’ll wear it. This is your wedding, and this will remind that pack of wolves that you’re royalty, not just some plaything for their leader. So you’ll wear it, and you’ll hold your head high, and you’ll do me proud.”

Stiles knows better than to argue.

Finally she adds a five pointed star brooch, the symbol of his family, to the front of his tunic, and with one final pat, declares, “Done.”

Stiles looks in the mirror. He looks afraid, more than anything. He thinks of Peter calling him a scared little lamb, and closes his eyes, tries to summon up calming thoughts. When he opens his eyes again at least the naked fear’s gone. Stiles tries a smile. It’s mostly convincing, and it’ll have to do.

Erica puts a hand on his shoulder. “Stiles? Thank you. For doing this.”

Stiles knows she has a brother in the army, and somehow her quiet thanks means more than all his father’s grand talk of duty and obedience. He puts his hand atop hers. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Peter’s…” He has no idea how to finish that sentence.

Erica squeezes his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll walk with you.”

Stiles would love nothing better but, “I don’t think you can. Protocol.”

“Protocol,” Erica echoes softly. “In that case, you’d better go and wait for your guards. I’ll see you here later.”

* * *

There’s very little pomp and circumstance, given that it’s a royal wedding. But time is short, and nobody cares whether Stiles has a bouquet of his favorite flowers. They don’t care whether he wants to be here at all.

He walks in on his father’s arm and meets Peter at the altar. Peter’s wearing a deep blue silk tunic that makes his eye color stand out even more. He’s still wrapped in a fur cloak, but this one is sleek and luxurious, purely for show. Stiles takes a moment to parse that Peter’s had his shaggy locks trimmed and tamed, and shaved the rough beard he was sporting. He looks different, less threatening somehow. Peter gives Stiles a tiny smile, and Stiles takes what comfort he can from it as they stand there while the priest, Deaton, begins the service. Stiles barely listens, too busy sneaking looks at Peter. From this side, his scar isn’t visible, and he’s undeniably more handsome when he’s clean shaven.

The priest drones on for what seems like hours before he says “Let the couple recite their vows. Stiles?”

Stiles swallows thickly. He can do this. “I, Stiles, take you, Peter, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part,” Stiles recites, and tries not to think about that last part.

Peter repeats the vows back to him. Stiles doesn’t imagine the sigh of relief his father lets out.

Deaton hold outs a velvet cushion with two rings, and Stiles takes a moment to wonder how they know what size his fingers are, before picking up the larger of the rings and taking Peter’s hand in his.

“With this ring, I thee wed _,_ with my bo – body, I thee worship,” Stiles stutters, “and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” He slips the ring onto Peter’s finger.

 _“_ With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” Peter intones smoothly, and then Stiles finds himself wearing a ring of his own, staring at it like that will help any of this make sense.

They sign the registry, and the look Peter gives him is almost pitying when Stiles can’t stop his hand from shaking, smudging the ink. But he signs, shaking or not, and it’s done. Their kingdoms are joined, the alliance complete, and Erica’s brother won’t be slaughtered by Argent steel before his twenty-fifth birthday, and that, that has to count for something, right?

* * *

Stiles reflects that it’s a good thing Erica’s seen his naked ass plenty over the years, because the last thing he needs is something else to be embarrassed about.

When they were meant to kiss in front of the guests, Peter had instead skated his lips across Stiles’s cheek and taken the opportunity to murmur, “Off you go lamb, and get yourself ready for me.”

Like Stiles would have forgotten, somehow.

Erica insisted he drink a glass of strong liquor, and he screwed up his nose at the taste, but now, minutes later, he can feel himself relaxing. He wonders if he should have another one, but then she’s helping him out of his clothes and onto the bed, face down, and he lays there waiting. The oiled finger tracing his rim shouldn’t be a shock, but he still tenses up. “You’re taut as a bowstring, Stiles. Try and relax,” Erica soothes.

It’s easier said than done, but Erica doesn’t rush, just circles the flesh gently till the muscle softens, and then adds more oil, and more oil. And more oil. When Stiles feels like he’s swimming in the stuff, she presses forward lightly and sinks a fingertip in. Stiles yelps and tenses up. She doesn’t take it out though, just leaves it there while he catches his breath. He casts an embarrassed look over his shoulder, but Erica’s face is impassive. He wants to apologize for asking her to be part of this, but he also wants to pretend none of this is happening.

He goes for the second option.

After a while, it doesn’t feel so strange, so huge, and he nods. Erica keeps him still with a hand to his hip and adds a second finger. It burns, and he tries to squirm away, but Erica’s grip is firm, and so is her tone when she says, “Trust me, Stiles. You want this now, not out there.”

She's right, he knows it, so he pants and he hisses, but he does his best to relax and stay still. Soon enough two fingers are moving in and out freely, and Stiles is lulled into a false sense of security. When she takes her fingers away, it doesn’t occur to him that the next thing he’ll feel will be the plug.

Stiles arches at the sudden stretch, but Erica keeps pressing forwards, relentless, and slowly, the plug eases inside. When it’s at its widest point, Erica keeps it there for what feels like an eternity, before moving it in and out as Stiles curses her and tells her she’s fired if she doesn’t take it out _right now_ , and wonders how he’s ever going to do this for real.

Erica ignores his threats and tells him he’s overreacting, but she slows her movements, gives him breathing space. She coaches him through it, tells him how to relax his muscles and when to push to make it easier, and he wonders where she learned such things. In the end his curiosity gets the better of him. “How do you even know this?”

Erica lets out a tinkling laugh. “My cousin’s a healer, remember? I help her out sometimes. And you wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen. Shall I tell you?” 

Stiles nods, eager for the distraction. As her hand continues to move steadily, Erica tells him outrageous tales of the things her cousin has had to dislodge from peoples’ bodies. Vegetables, ears of corn, hairbrushes, even a goldfish once. Eventually the sting and the burn ease, and Stiles’s nerves have settled enough for him to relax so that the wide part of the plug slips in and out easily.

Finally Erica pulls it out, and Stiles has to take a moment to get used to feeling empty and stretched before she dresses him in his Claiming Robe, which is really just a transparent nightshirt of finest muslin, and which Stiles personally thinks is worse than wearing nothing. It’s like the gauzy curtains on the bed – a parody of decency, and no use at all.

There’s a knock on the door just as he’s fiddling with the ties on the front of the neckline, and he takes a deep breath. Erica kisses him softly on the cheek and whispers, “Good luck, sweet prince.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Stiles opens the door he expects to see one of the palace guards there, but it’s Peter. “Oh,” he says, and resists the urge to slam the door in his face. Peter looks him up and down, his gaze lingering, before extending a hand. “Shall we, husband?” Stiles takes Peter’s arm and steps outside the room, squirming a little and trying to cover himself with his hands, taking baby steps. They’ve barely gone three feet when Peter stops and sighs.

He eyes Stiles up as though deliberating, and before Stiles can say anything, Peter’s scooped him up in his arms and is striding down the hallway, carrying him as if he weighs nothing at all. Stiles flails a little in protest, but Peter raises that eyebrow of his. “Settle. The rate you were dawdling we wouldn’t have made the dais before sunrise, and people are waiting.”

Stiles thinks that this actually preferable to walking half exposed and with his ass stretched and dripping oil, and at least this way everyone they pass can’t see his nakedness, so he just says, “Yes Alpha,” and lets himself be carried along.

As they get closer, Peter says quietly, “You’ve prepared?”

Stiles nods, blushing.

“Excellent,” Peter murmurs. “Lets get this damnable thing done, yes?” and sets Stiles on his feet so he can at least cross the room unaided.

When they reach the centre of the bedchamber Peter lifts Stiles and sits him on the edge of the dais, and Stiles tries not to look at the figures in the chairs he can dimly see through the billowy netting, tries not to think about the members of court sitting there, about his father.

Peter strips efficiently, and Stiles takes the chance to look at his husband properly. He was right, Peter’s muscled all over, and Stiles suddenly feels inadequate. He hopes Peter’s not disappointed in him, hopes he doesn’t take one look at Stiles’s gangly limbs and pale skin and declare that there’s been a mistake and he’s changed his mind.

Somehow Stiles thinks the shame from that would be worse than if this went ahead.

Peter approaches and says quietly, “Look at me, Stiles, not them.” Then his hands are cupping Stiles’s face, and he’s looking at him, waiting, and Stiles has no choice but to nod his agreement. Stiles’s heart is racing, but there’s no going back, not now.

Peter’s hands slide under the hem of his robe, warm on his thighs, and Stiles can’t help the whimper he lets out. “Shhh, trust me,” Peter says, and then he’s laying Stiles on his back and spreading his legs wide, climbing onto the raised bed so Stiles is trapped beneath his body. Stiles tries to ignore the heat of Peter’s cock against him where they’re pressed together, the way Peter’s rucked his nightshirt up to his waist, and tries to focus on Peter’s face, on his smell, anything but what’s about to happen.

“You’re all right, lamb. I'll make it quick,” Peter breathes against his ear, and Stiles supposes _quick_ is the best he can hope for. Peter sits back on his haunches and nudges Stiles’s legs further apart, settling his calves over his shoulders. Stiles wants to fight, to protest, to say it’s too soon, he’s not ready, but he stays silent, because Erica has a brother, and he agreed to this.

Peter’s fingers are thicker than Erica’s.

Stiles tenses at the intrusion, but he tries to remember what Eri told him, breathes slow and deep, consciously relaxes, pushes out. Peter makes an approving sound. There’s another finger, and it stings, but far less than when Erica first did it. Peter doesn't take long, must just be making sure he’s ready. He removes his hand, obviously satisfied with Stiles’s preparations, and then he wraps strong hands around Stiles's hips to steady him, slots his cock against his ass, and presses forward. There’s a moment where Stiles thinks it’s not going to fit, that this can’t work, but Peter just keeps pushing, a solid, steady pressure, and when the head pops inside Peter makes a sound like he’s been punched.

It _hurts_ , much worse that when Erica first put the plug in, and Stiles can’t hold back a sob. Peter’s eyes snap to his face, searching, and he stills. Stiles blinks away the tears, aware that people are watching, that they’ll talk, they always talk.

Everyone always asks - did the bride cry?

And then Peter’s hand on his hip is doing _something_ , Stiles doesn’t know what, but the pain is gone, and Stiles is just uncomfortable now. “Better?” Peter asks, quietly enough that only Stiles can hear, and Stiles nods. “Try and relax,” Peter murmurs, and pushes all the way in.

It’s not painful, but it’s strange and awkward, and as Peter sets up a steady rhythm Stiles finds himself counting the strokes, wondering how long until this is over. Peter holds him in place, and Stiles does his best to stay limp and pliant and not think about what’s happening right now. It's silent except for the slap of skin on skin and Peter’s harsh breathing as he thrusts in and out. His eyes are closed, and Stiles wonders who he's thinking about.

It takes Peter pumping in and out twenty-seven times before he slams in hard, stills, and lets out another groan. He stays there panting, and it’s done, he’s done.

Stiles didn’t even get hard.

Peter pulls out, and it’s exactly as awful as Stiles imagined. There’s wetness where there shouldn’t be, and Stiles feels slightly sick at the thought of it. The quiet is broken by the sound of someone clearing their throat, and Stiles knows who it is. He steels himself for what comes next and fights the urge to curl into a ball. Sure enough, the curtains are pulled back and Deaton’s there, face impassive as he looks between Stiles’s legs like he has any right to be there, and declares the marriage consummated.

Stiles doesn’t know what he expects, but he’s quietly grateful when the members of court silently file out of the room with no fanfare. Peter, who's already dressed, watches them go with a sneer on his face. “Barbaric,” he mutters under his breath, before turning to Stiles. “Still, we survived it. Do you need help?”

Stiles goes to sit up, and winces at the sharp pain. Peter’s there in a second, one hand on his arm steadying him, one on his hip, and once again Stiles feels his pain leave him. His eyes widen when he sees black lines running up Peter’s arm. “What _is_ that?”

“Weres can take pain. And I wanted this to be tolerable for you,” Peter says. Not _good,_ Stiles notes. It could never be good, not in this setting. But tolerable. He’s suddenly hit with the certainty that Peter enjoyed this about as much as he did, and it causes a pang of unexpected sympathy, because at least Stiles just had to lie there. Nobody cared if his dick stayed soft. But Peter? Peter had to perform, in a room full of strangers, with someone he’s met exactly twice, and who was crying to boot. Stiles can’t imagine it. Something in his expression must give him away, because Peter’s mouth takes on a wry twist. “None of that, now. We both agreed to this.”

They did. Peter asked, and Stiles accepted, and it’s done. Stiles looks Peter in the eye, and says, “It wasn’t so bad.”

Impossibly, Peter’s mouth quirks up in a tiny smile. “Not so bad?” His hand moves from Stiles’s hip down to the soft skin of his belly, brushes his flaccid cock. “I could make it better, if you like. Now that we’re alone?”

Stiles’s mind stutters to a halt as Peter rests his palm over his soft dick, waiting. There’s no protocol for this. Stiles is far too aware of the heat and weight of Peter’s hand, and perhaps, he thinks, if it wasn’t like this, he’d consider it. In the end though, he gives a tiny shake of his head. “No. It’s – it’s fine. I should wash before the feast.”

Peter takes his hand away, doesn’t press the issue, and Stiles is grateful. Peter does lean in without warning though, and bury his nose in the crook of Stiles’s neck, inhaling deeply, eyes closed. He stays there for a moment, and he’s every inch the wolf. Stiles stays still and accepts it, knows enough not to pull away from the scenting. Eventually Peter pulls back, and Stiles slides off the bed, wobbling a little as he stands. Peter frowns, but Stiles doesn’t think he’s annoyed. He just wraps Stiles in his fur cloak and scoops him up, holding him against his chest just like he did before.

He carries Stiles back to his room and Stiles catches the smirks on the faces of those they pass, knows how it looks, knows it screams _My husband took me so hard I can’t walk_ , but he can’t bring himself to care, because his near naked body's wrapped in a fur cloak, Peter’s warm and solid against him, and the short trip allows Stiles to take a moment just to breathe.

* * *

Erica’s waiting for him, and the look she shoots Peter when he strides into the room and deposits Stiles on the bed is heavy with disapproval, but if anything, Peter just looks amused. “I see you’re in good hands, lamb. I’ll be back to collect you for the feast,” he says, and presses a soft kiss to Stiles’s forehead before he leaves.

As soon as they’re alone Erica settles Stiles on the bed. “Let’s get this stupid thing off you, shall we?” Erica tugs at the nightshirt, and Stiles is embarrassed when he sees the damp patch where Peter’s seed has dribbled out of him, but Erica doesn’t seem to notice, dragging it over his head and throwing it aside. She tends to him with warm water and washcloths and soothing cream that she spreads on his tender ass, not saying anything even though Stiles knows she’s burning with curiosity. Stiles doesn’t offer details either. This isn’t something he can talk about.

He wonders when Peter will want to do it again, if he’ll have a chance to recover first. Werewolves are notorious for being creatures of great appetite, and Stiles assumes that extends to the bedroom.

Plus, Peter offered to make him feel good. Stiles takes that to mean he wants this to be an ongoing thing. Why would he care about Stiles’s comfort otherwise? Or maybe, the cynical part of him offers, Peter’s just acting halfway decent until he gets Stiles back to Hale, out from under his father’s care, before treating him like dirt.

“Stop thinking so hard, Stiles.” Erica’s touch is soothing, her words calm. “It is what it is.”

Stiles lets out a sound that’s part resignation, part agreement, because she’s right.

It is what it is.

She helps him dress, tutting and frowning when he winces as he bends over. Whatever Peter did to take the pain is only temporary apparently, and there’s a dull ache between Stiles’s legs. He does his best to ignore it. He’s had worse from training with the guards, has come home limping and bloody nosed before now after a sparring session with Lady McCall’s son. This is no different.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

* * *

Peter arrives to collect him, and this time, Stiles isn’t carried from his room. He walks tall and proud, cloak swinging behind him as he takes Peter’s arm and strides along the hallway. He thinks he sees something like approval in his husband’s eyes. He ignores the twinge in his ass as he walks, and enters the great hall on the arm of his husband looking every inch the crown prince. This is a role he was born to play, and he slips into it as easy as breathing.

He meets the important members of Peter’s pack. Derek, Peter’s nephew, quiet and serious, who seems to be built of muscle and eyebrow. Boyd, who Peter cryptically calls his Left Hand, another silent giant of a man. Cora, the niece, who gives him a sharp grin and a wink, whose eyes dance with mischief when she calls him pretty, making her uncle growl under his breath. Her, Stiles thinks, he might like. Isaac, young and tall and impossibly pretty, but with a hardness to his expression. Laura, dark eyed and unreadable.

They gather around their leader, and Stiles nods and murmurs a few words to each of them, how he’s glad to be joining them, he hears Hale is a beautiful part of the country, how he looks forwards to living there, the normal platitudes, and its only when they all give him a disbelieving look that he remembers what Peter told him. “Werewolves can tell if you’re lying, Stiles. They can hear it in your heartbeat.”

Still. This isn’t really lying. This is diplomacy.

He’s taken aback when Peter leans in and scents him again, but he tilts his head to the side and allows it, and that earns him a rumble of approval from deep in Peter’s chest. Then Peter stands aside and says, “Nephew?” and there’s another face at his neck, Derek this time. He doesn’t scent Stiles as deeply or for as long as Peter, there and gone in seconds, running a palm down Stiles's cheek, but then the rest of the party all take turns sniffing him and putting their hands on his face and neck. Stiles stays still and quiet with his head tilted back, and once Isaac pulls away Peter gives a satisfied nod. Stiles can’t help but feel he’s passed some sort of test.

“You smell like pack, now,” Peter murmurs quietly, and Stiles knows that’s important. A part of his mind points out that this is the werewolf equivalent of the public bedding. If he’s honest, Stiles prefers it.

The wedding feast is a small affair, but the food is good and Stiles finally manages to eat something, his nerves somewhat appeased and the skipped meals from the past few days making their absence known. He catches his father watching him, and although he won't meet Stiles's glance, he looks more relieved than anything. Stiles is still slightly bitter that his father was lying when he said he’d never marry Stiles off for political gain, but he guesses when you’re looking at a blade held to the throat of the entire kingdom, promises made to a boy really don’t count for much.

Stiles glances over at his husband, sees the long, raised scar on his cheek. The Argents soak their blades in wolfsbane, and Peter’s been on the receiving end of that once before. Yet here he is, prepared to go and face it again, with only Stiles as his prize. Stiles doesn’t understand why he would do such a thing.

He knows the history of course, knows that the ill will between Argent and Hale runs deep, and in the end, he can only speculate that Peter’s motive is revenge, pure and simple. He doesn’t have the resources to defeat the Argents on his own, even with his pack of several hundred, and Stiles knows the army in Beacon can’t do it either. Together though? Stiles thinks they'll be unstoppable.

There are toasts to the happy couple, but Stiles only sips at his wine, turns down the offer of a refill. His father always taught him to stay in control at public events. Peter, he notes, does the same, and something in him is pleased at that, though he couldn’t tell you why. Maybe it’s just the implication that perhaps his husband isn’t a slave to his appetites after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Later in the evening Stiles finds himself yawning against his will even though the feast is still in full swing. Peter puts a hand on his arm and says “Shall we go? I thought I’d join you in your rooms, rather than you come to mine.”

Of course they’ll share a room. Especially on this, their wedding night. In a marriage such as theirs, it’s important to be seen to be a couple. Tradition demands it. So Stiles ducks his head in a small nod, and takes Peter’s proffered arm.

Erica’s waiting, because of course she is. When Peter follows Stiles inside, her eyes widen for a moment, and Stiles can see the second she slips into deferential mode, the one she adopts when it’s not just the two of them. “Will your majesties be requiring me this evening?” she asks.

Stiles has been on his best behavior all evening, but he doesn’t think he can keep up the façade of formality his best friend, not tonight. “It’s fine, Eri. The feast’s still going, why don’t you go and join them, tell my father I gave you leave.”

She bites her lip. “You’re sure?”

“Go. Enjoy the dancing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Erica flashes him a bright smile and dashes out the door, leaving them alone. When Stiles turns, Peter’s seated in a chair pulling his boots off, and his chest is already bare, tunic crumpled on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Stiles squawks, gesturing wildly.

“I’m preparing for bed. _Some_ of us can undress without help.” Peter stands and turns his back, pushing his trousers down. Stiles is transfixed, just for a moment, by the sight of a finely muscled ass, but then he remembers himself.

“You can't – where’s your nightshirt?”

Peter turns and smiles with all his teeth. “I don’t _have_ a nightshirt, Stiles, because I’m not a spoiled princeling. Werewolves like to be bare. I’m sure you’ll adjust.”

And indeed, he seems more comfortable in his nakedness, more real, somehow. Stiles finds his eyes drawn to Peter’s cock. It’s soft, and less menacing than he thought it would be. Peter follows his gaze but does him the courtesy of not commenting, instead walking over the bed and climbing in. Stiles turns his back and disrobes as well, but he does pull a nightshirt on, and if that makes him a spoiled princeling so be it. He thinks he hears a huff of laughter, but he ignores it, instead climbing in the other side.

He's barely settled, back firmly turned to his husband and perched on the farthest edge of the mattress, when Peter says, “Oh no, that won’t do at _all.”_ Strong arms wrap around him and Stiles finds himself half dragged across the bed, his head nestled into Peter’s chest as he’s held in place with a cast iron grip. “Better,” Peter says. “You’ll come to understand the importance of scent, but for now just trust me when I tell you it’s for the best that you smell thoroughly like your Alpha.”

Stiles takes a chance and moves his head a little - not resisting, just getting comfortable. Peter looks down with a cocked brow. “Are you going to squirm all night?”

Stiles remembers his father’s admonition, and stills. “Sorry, Alpha,” he says meekly.

Peter makes a pained sound. “I’ll give you fair warning, Stiles. Don’t ever call me Alpha in the bedchamber, unless you want me to pin you down and take you.” Stiles tenses and lets out a frightened squeak, but then the arm around him squeezes in a rough embrace and Peter lets out a long breath. “Relax, Stiles. You’re safe from my advances. I take no joy in an unwilling partner.”

Stiles does relax, as much as he can. Peter’s flesh is hotter than normal beneath him, and he knows that were he to draw back the sheet, he’d be met with the sight of nothing but skin. Even where his fingers are pressed against Peter’s side the sensation of bare flesh is heady. Stiles’s heart beats faster, and he’s not sure it’s entirely from fear. Peter must sense something of his confusion, because he pulls back slightly and gives Stiles an appraising look, before turning them on their sides and arranging himself against Stiles’s back, like spoons in a drawer.

Stiles is cocooned in heat and muscle, surrounded by the smell of male sweat, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he lies as still as possible, and hopes Peter’s promise that he’s safe means more than his father's turned out to. A voice in his ear husks, “Whatever you’re thinking about, stop it. You reek of bitterness.”

Stiles had forgotten that his scent would broadcast his emotions. Apparently, he can’t even be miserable in peace. “Sorry, Al – Peter,” he corrects quickly, hoping the slip passes unnoticed. Peter sighs heavily against his neck, and Stiles does his best to think of other things. Maybe it’s the press of a body against his, the way his ass is still tender from earlier, or the ghost of Peter's seed he can feel on his skin, but something occurs to him and he has to ask. “Peter? Can I ask something?”

“Mmm?”

Stiles takes that as a yes. “What happens about an heir? I can’t bear you children.”

“Oh, but you can,” Peter whispers in his ear. "There's a ritual."

Stiles’s heart clutches. “Oh, gods. Re - really?” He chokes on the words.

Hot breath hits the back of his neck as Peter huffs out a laugh. “No, lamb. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Peter's mocking him. Stiles curls in on himself, silent and embarrassed. His husband, he thinks bitterly, is a giant ass, and it takes all his self-control not to tell him so, but the man’s teeth are so very close to his neck. Peter must have a moment of remorse, because his fingers skate down Stiles’s arm in a comforting gesture. “Apologies, lamb. It was too good an opening to resist.”

“S’ fine,” Stiles mumbles into the pillow. It’s not, not really, but he won’t make a fuss.

Peter sighs and rolls Stiles around to face him, and will this man _ever_ stop just hauling him about like a sack of coal, Stiles wonders, or is this his life now, a literal puppet? But when he looks at Peter’s face, he sees something like regret there, which he didn’t expect. “I forgot that you can’t read my scent, assumed you’d know I was joking,” Peter says, slightly chagrined. “And to answer your question, I don’t need an heir, per se. Pack doesn’t work that way. The Alpha power is passed down to the pack member that’s deemed worthy. When the time comes, it will pass to Derek, and after that onto one of the pups he’s bound to have sired.”

“Oh.” That makes sense, when Stiles thinks about it. “Sorry that I couldn't tell you were joking.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “And so you should be. You’ve known me for a full day, and you can’t read me like a book yet? Do better, husband.”

Stiles does recognize the joke that time, and it draws a tiny smile from him.

“I’ll try,” he offers, “But I might need at least a week.”

He bites his lip, not sure if he’s overstepped, but Peter just grins. He leans in and drops a kiss on Stiles’s forehead, before declaring, “You’ll do.”

Stiles supposes it’s a compliment, but he doesn’t like to ask.

* * *

After Peter nudges at him to turn over again he plasters himself against Stiles’s back, but it’s less tense now, and Stiles isn’t quite so afraid to open his mouth. “I wonder who’ll take over from my father,” he speculates, mainly to himself.

Peter lets out a soft snort. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, with what he and the Lady McCall have been up to. I’d say they’ll be wed and bred within months, given that he’s already pupped her.”

Stiles sits bolt upright at that, pulling against Peter’s grip. _“What??”_

Peter blinks at him lazily, and Stiles realizes he must have been half asleep. “Your father and Lady McCall,” he repeats patiently. “They’re coupling. It’s all over them. Had you not noticed?”

Stiles shakes his head, bewildered. He knows his father and Melissa are friends, that she joins them at the royal table with her son often, that she consults with his father about household matters, often long into the night. And when he thinks about it, he has a faint memory of one evening when he was unable to sleep and he’d been wandering the halls, of spotting a flushed and rumpled Melissa, noting that the laces on the front of her gown were undone. He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. “Oh, I’m an idiot,” he groans. “They weren’t really meeting to discuss kitchen staff, were they?” Peter just raises an eyebrow in reply. “And she’s…”

“With child, yes.” 

Stiles feels a stab of betrayal. He doesn’t begrudge his father some happiness, and Melissa’s a good match, but to keep it from him, and then have the gall to marry Stiles off? A part of Stiles wonders if his father was only waiting till he had someone else to take the throne before using Stiles as a bargaining chip. He knows that’s unfair, though. It only seems that way. Peter asked for him, John didn’t offer.

At least, that’s what he was told. He wonders, now, about the truth of it. Peter’s still watching him, heavy eyed, and Stiles hesitates just a second before asking. “Peter? My father, he said - he said that you asked for my hand. Is that true?”

Peter doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

It gives Stiles some measure of relief to know that about that in this at least, his father hadn’t lied. It still doesn't make sense to him though. "Why, though? What do you get out of this?"

Peter gives him a grin that can only be described as wolfish. "I get an unshakeable alliance with Beacon, a delightful little princeling to warm my bed, and the chance to wipe the Argents from the face of the earth."

"Oh." When Peter puts it like that, Stiles can see how it would appeal.

Strong arms wrap round his waist and Peter pulls him down into the bed again. “Now will you settle and let me sleep? Or do I have to tie you in place?”

Stiles chooses to believe it’s another joke, but he also lies very still and quiet in Peter’s arms, just in case. He doesn’t sleep for a long time, but it’s not so terrible, being wrapped in werewolf.

* * *

When Stiles wakes in the morning his nightshirt’s ridden up to his waist in his sleep, and there’s someone in bed with him and something moving against his bare ass, something hard. His breath catches as it all comes flooding back. He’s married, and that’s his husband, his _husband,_ rutting against his ass. The hair on Peter’s thighs rubs and scratches, and there’s dampness where the head of his cock rests as Peter’s hips jerk forwards in an unsteady rhythm.

Stiles doesn’t know what he’s meant to do, and he tries to squirm away, but stiffens when he feels a kiss to the back of his neck and a hand clamping down on his hip, holding him in place. Peter’s voice is soft as he murmurs, “That’s it, stay still for me.” His cock slides up and down the cleft of Stiles’s ass with a little more purpose, and Stiles closes his eyes and tries remember how to breathe.

Peter tugs at his hip, pulling him backwards, and starts to rut against him in earnest, wrapping an arm round Stiles’s waist to keep him there. The head of Peter’s cock drags across Stiles’s aching hole, catching for just a second, making Stiles cry out. The noise only seems to spur Peter on, his thrusts speeding up, and Stiles finds himself pleading, “No no, not that, please,” even though he knows he’s not meant to refuse.

“Shhh, just this, just let me - ” Peter pants out, and then sets his teeth at the base of Stiles’s neck and bites down, shuddering and groaning, and through the sharp sting of the bite Stiles feels a flood of warmth against his back.

He blinks back tears, and waits for Peter to punish him for saying no.

But all he hears is a contented sigh, and then there are hands pulling at his nightshirt, using it to wipe the sticky mess from his skin, gentle kisses against the bitemark, and a soft rumbling coming from Peter’s chest. Stiles shudders at the unwanted intimacy of it all. “You’re all right, princeling. I didn’t hurt you,” Peter soothes, and Stiles supposes that technically it’s true. He’s still shaken though, overwhelmed at the thought that Peter saw fit to use him this way. He guesses he should be grateful he didn’t do more. But still, it doesn’t sit right.

Stiles gathers his nerve and rolls to face his husband. “You said you weren’t interested in an unwilling partner,” he accuses.

Peter smirks. “I’m not. You started it.”

“I did not!” Stiles denies hotly.

Peter’s grin widens. “I woke to find you grinding back against me, moaning in your sleep and smelling of want. If that’s not an invitation I don’t know what is.”

Stiles blushes bright red. Had he really done that? “It doesn’t – I was asleep!”

“Hmm. Whatever you say.” Peter eyes him speculatively, before moving so Stiles is trapped beneath him. He leans in and kisses down Stiles’s throat, not giving him any choice in the matter, and between the press of hot muscle against his skin and the scrape of stubble on his flesh, Stiles finds himself getting hard, much to his shame.

He tries to hide it, to angle his body so Peter doesn’t notice, but of course it’s no use. Peter pulls away grinning like the devil himself. “That’s more like it.” he slots a solid thigh between Stiles’s legs, rocking subtly, and Stiles can’t help but rock back. “Go ahead,” Peter coaxes, and runs a thumb over one of Stiles’s nipples, making him shudder. “Take your pleasure, lamb. You’ve earned it.”

Peter starts to tense the muscle in his thigh so it rubs and throbs against Stiles’s erection, and it feels good, better than it has a right to. Part of Stiles’s brain is protesting that he doesn’t want this, but a bigger, _louder_ part is telling him that yes, yes he does, that after what he went through yesterday, he _deserves_ it.

In the end his brain doesn’t get a say, because Peter rolls them so Stiles is on top, and his body makes the decision for him. He finds himself grinding against Peter’s leg with a hand tangled in Peter’s hair, burying his face in Peter’s neck so Peter can’t see him as he rocks and pants his way closer to orgasm.

He whimpers when Peter pulls back a little, but it turns out it’s only so he can get a hand between them and wrap it around Stiles’s cock, stroking him and making encouraging noises. Stiles looks down to find Peter gazing at him raptly as his hand works Stiles’s shaft. “Come on lamb, come for me.”

Stiles is seventeen and has never been kissed.

It doesn’t take much.

His eyes close and he lets himself go. He’s overwhelmed when a wave of sensation sweeps through him. His nerve endings spark, his back arches, and stars explode behind his eyelids. He stuffs the heel of his hand in his mouth to cover the sounds he makes when he comes.

After, he’s left trembling and breathless, all too aware of the heat of Peter’s hand against his softening cock. He wants to move away, embarrassed, but he can’t quite manage it.

Peter lets out a soft laugh, and when Stiles finally chances a look Peter’s wearing a pleased smile. “I thought maybe you weren’t attracted to me, but I’m glad to see that’s not the case.”

Stiles is still come-drunk, too fuzzy headed to censor himself. He asks, “How did you know, anyway? That I don’t like girls?”

Peter shrugs. “I was fairly certain where your interests lay. I watched you flirt badly with the lad in the stables, after all.” Stiles flushes, and wonders just how much attention Peter has been paying to him. Peter strokes a hand down Stiles’s side, and moves them around so they’re curled up facing each other. “I’ll admit I was pleased – the fact that you’d at least be amenable to being bedded did make this whole thing more palatable.”

Stiles, who’s grown up hearing all sorts of tales about ill matched couples forced into marriage, who has seen wives who shudder at their husband’s touch, nods his understanding. Peter’s an Alpha werewolf, and Stiles barely knows him, but at least there’s this.

Peter puts two fingers under Stiles’s chin and tilts it up so he can see Stiles’s face. “You liked this?” he asks, indicating between them, where Stiles’s come is still cooling on his skin. 

Stiles wants to say he hated it and doesn’t want to do it again, but he knows that's a lie. His eyes flick downwards to the mess on his belly. “I really liked it,” he admits shyly, and he’s not sure which of them he’s confessing to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, my posting schedule might be thrown off because I'm out of town for the next few days catching up with my brothers, and there's a crack of dawn fishing charter and probably a hangover in there somewhere, so if I post a little late, that's why.

When Erica comes in to get Stiles ready for the day, Peter’s already up and dressed and gone. Stiles makes his way down to breakfast, aware of the curious stares he gets. He knows what they’re all thinking.

_Did the bride cry?_

So he makes a point of smiling and nodding, engaging his normal happy go lucky persona, and he takes a petty satisfaction when the people staring lower their eyes as though ashamed. He’s the prince after all, the Alpha’s husband now, and he won’t be the object of speculation.

Peter’s still in the kitchen when Stiles gets there, finishing his breakfast. They share a nod, and Peter rubs his cheek against Stiles’s, his stubble scraping against the soft skin as he scent marks him before telling Stiles he’ll be in a meeting with the king and leaving the kitchen. Stiles’s hand strays to his cheek as he eats his breakfast, tracing the lingering warmth there.

Stiles barely sees Peter for the rest of the day. He does see a messenger leave the office and go scurrying off to the stables, and wonders what’s going on. But the door to the war room remains firmly closed, and prince or not, Stiles knows enough to stay away. So instead he wanders through the castle, before heading out to the stables. He’s restless, and Danny’s always good company.

When he gets there, Danny’s shirtless despite the chill of the morning, and his torso glistens with sweat as he effortlessly carries bales of hay from one end of the stables to the other. Stiles takes a moment to appreciate the view before he blurts out, “Am I attractive to men? And am I really bad at flirting?”

Danny doesn’t even pause in what he’s doing. “Yes and yes.”

“Huh.” Stiles doesn’t know why he’s surprised by the frankness of the answer – it’s one of the things he likes about Danny.

Danny turns to him and asks, “Should you be here unsupervised, now you’re a married man?”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, hoping it’s fine. “Where did the messenger go?” he asks, in an effort to change the subject.

“Hale, on the fastest horse.” Stiles wonders what was so urgent. Danny stops work just long enough to say, “If you’re just going to sit there, you can fill the water troughs for me.”

Stiles grabs the buckets and sets to work, glad of the familiarity of the task. The repetitive motion of pumping the water and pouring in into the troughs helps him settle in his skin, and if he moves slower than usual, or winces at the ache in his backside, Danny makes no mention of it.

When he’s done he goes back inside, heading for the kitchen to get something cool to drink. Lady McCall is there, drinking what smells like peppermint tea, and Stiles wonders whether he should say something about what he knows. He finds his eyes straying to her belly, the way she has one hand resting there, and when he looks up she’s watching him, pensive. Stiles knows he could say something nasty, make things difficult, but he likes Melissa, and it's exhausting staying annoyed at his dad. He doesn’t have it in him to be petty.

“I hope you know,” he begins, and notes the way the muscles in Melissa’s neck tense, ”That once I’m gone, somebody will have to make sure my father doesn’t eat a diet made up entirely of pork dripping.”

“He does love his dripping,” Melissa agrees with a terse smile.

“What he really needs is someone to care for him. He’s been alone too long.” Stiles hopes he isn’t making a hash of this.

Apparently he’s not, because Melissa’s smile softens into something more genuine. “I think so too.”

“Perhaps he’ll wed,” Stiles speculates. “He’ll need an heir now, after all.” He gives Melissa a pointed look. She blushes a deep red, and that's all the confirmation he needs.

Stiles takes a moment to contemplate having a little brother or sister. Wonders if he'll even get to meet them. He guesses that's up to Peter. The thought stings somewhat. He slides off his stool, and as he goes to walk away, Melissa wraps a slim hand round his wrist, holding him there. “Stiles, how did you know? Did your father tell you?”

He shrugs. “Peter knew. He can smell things.” He waves a hand to indicate the nebulousness of _‘things’._

“And you're not ...upset? We were going to tell you, but it's too early.”

Stiles shakes his head. “ I think you're good for him. And I'm happy about the - ” he indicates silently, aware that there's always someone listening somewhere.

The relief on Melissa’s face is palpable, and Stiles thinks, _well at least someone cares what I think._

He shuts down that train of thought. It is what it is.

* * *

For the next three days, Peter and the king meet behind closed doors, and Stiles carries on as he normally would, sparring in the training yards with Scott, reading everything he can find in the library about werewolves, which admittedly isn’t much. He also spends time with Erica, painfully aware that soon enough he won't get to see her at all. Peter has made it quite clear that when they go back to Hale Stiles won't be bringing a retinue, scoffs at the very idea when Stiles asks how many servants will accompany him. "You're a grown man. You should be able to take care of yourself." Stiles swallows down his disappointment and nods. Wolves do things differently, he reminds himself.

His treacherous body continues to do as it pleases.

Every morning, he wakes to find himself pressing back into Peter, but instead of going ahead and rutting against him now, Peter will reach around and caress Stiles’s cock lightly, rasping out a sleep-roughened, “Yes?” and waiting for Stiles’s shy nod before proceeding. He brings Stiles to completion first, before taking his own pleasure. On the second morning he slips an oil-slicked cock between Stiles's thighs and ruts in the space there, and it's far better than it should be, making Stiles whine as he rocks back into it, even though he's already come. Peter lets out a soft laugh and calls him a greedy little thing.

Stiles always responds to Peter’s touch, and afterwards he finds himself somewhere between sated and confused.

Stiles honestly doesn’t know what to make of his husband. They barely speak, but in bed Peter clings to him and manhandles him like it's his right, as if they were real lovers, not just pawns in a bigger game. He thinks if he could get to know Peter better maybe he wouldn’t be so worried about setting a foot wrong, but how can he know someone he never gets to see?

And how will he know what will happen if he dares say, “No, Alpha” if he doesn’t try?

So on the third morning, Stiles doesn’t say yes, because he needs to know if Peter will keep his word. He holds his breath after a whispered, “No,” braced for whatever might happen, but all Peter does is roll away, take himself in hand, and tug at his cock lazily until he spills across the sheets, and somehow that’s more mortifying than when he rubs himself against Stiles.

Afterwards, he says, “I know you were testing me lamb, because your scent gave you away, but I told you. Not if you’re unwilling.” Stiles would almost think he cared, but then Peter adds, “The stench of fear tends to kill the mood.”

Of course it’s all about his pleasure, Stiles thinks, resigned. He’s the Alpha, after all.

* * *

On the fourth day, they call him into the war room. “We ride against the Argents on the morrow,” his father tells him.

Stiles’s brow furrows in confusion. “But you said they’re weeks away?’

“They are,” Peter chimes in. “They won’t be expecting us. They think your father refused my offer for your hand.”

Stiles waggles the fingers of the hand wearing his wedding ring pointedly. “Um?”

“Nobody outside this kingdom knows we’re wed, Stiles. That's why the wedding was quick and quiet. News travels far too fast, and people listen in doorways,” Peter tells him, and waits for Stiles to connect the dots.

Stiles’s brain finally catches up. “When you sent that messenger to Hale, what was the message, exactly?”

Peter beams at him. “There’s my clever boy. The message I sent was that there would be no alliance since your father turned me down. Such a shame the rider took the path that led him into the Argent camp by accident. Such a shame he spilled all our secrets.”

Stiles can feel his mouth quirk up in a grin. “So, they think they’ll only be facing our army. And they don't know we're coming to them.” He can’t help but admire Peter’s cleverness.

“Exactly so.”

“I’ll get ready ,” Stiles says, excitement quickening in his breast. He hasn’t ridden out before, can barely ride at all if he's honest, but he assumed he'd be going too now he's of age, so he’s somewhat shocked when Peter says, “Absolutely not. You're a liability.”

Stiles looks to his father, but John has his arms folded across his chest. “I agree. You stay here.”

Stiles is suddenly, fiercely, angry. He’s been on his best behavior for five days now - it was never going to last. He whirls on his heel to face his husband. “You _arrogant asshole_. I’ve trained for this. Do you think I’m not good enough? That I can’t take care of myself in battle?”

Peter doesn't flinch.“You’re inexperienced. The battlefield’s no place for a wet behind the ears princeling.”

Scratch angry. Stiles is _furious._ He snaps out, “Oh, so old enough to fuck, but not to fight, is that it?”

It’s his father who answers, while Peter glares. “Stiles, you can’t be put in danger. If you were captured, we’d be compromised. I know you want to be out there, but it doesn’t make sense. You’re too important.”

Stiles wants to ask if he was so important, why did his father marry him off? But instead he takes a moment to consider what’s being said. He might not be thrilled with his father right now, but the man’s always been a good strategist, never does anything without examining it from all angles, doesn't act in haste. If he says Stiles is better to stay behind, maybe there's something to it.

He’s just about to concede that they might have a point when Peter adds, “And worrying about you on the battlefield is a distraction I don’t need,” as if Stiles is an incompetent child. It rubs him up exactly the wrong way.

“I don’t need you to worry about me, _Alpha,_ ” Stiles spits out the word. “I’ll be fine, busy killing the enemy.”

“Spoken like a brat who’s never killed anything more than a slug in the gardens,” Peter sneers.

The fact that it's true only irritates Stiles more. “I’m good with weapons!" he protests hotly. _In the training yard, with wheezy Scott,_ his treacherous brain reminds him.

Peter strides across the room and brandishes a clawed hand in Stiles’s face. “And I _am_ a weapon, Stiles, yet they’ve bested me before! This isn’t a game. You don’t get to dust yourself off and try again. Argent steel cuts deep, and I’ve no desire to encounter it again because I’m _busy protecting you!”_ he roars.

Peter’s other hand brushes over the scar on his face, and Stiles doesn’t even think he knows he’s doing it.

It stops him dead in his tracks.

He's suddenly reminded that this is a battle Peter’s fought and lost in the past. It cost him the one he loved, yet here he is, facing his enemy again. Stiles doesn’t think Peter’s doing it for him, exactly, but he is doing it for his kingdom, and Stiles is forced to acknowledge that it’ll doubtless mean danger, despite Peter’s assurances of victory.

Still. He can’t trust himself to speak to Peter right now without saying something stupid, so he turns to his father. “Dad?”

“Think about this, Stiles. Use that brain of yours. The Argents aren’t expecting us, and they’re not expecting an army of werewolves to be riding with us. The first thing they’ll do is look for any advantage. The crown prince? You’d make an ideal hostage. And they’d capture you, Stiles, make no mistake. They don’t play by the rules. Even if you were the most skilled fighter out there, I’d still want you as far from Kate Argent as I could get you.”

Stiles swallows, and nods his understanding. It stings, being forced to acknowledge that he’s vulnerable, but it’s also true. And he knows that if the Argents get wind of him being married to Peter, they’ll be twice as likely to target him.Still. “So what, I’ll stay here cloistered in the library with the wives, tatting my lace and waiting for news?” He knows he sounds bitter, doesn’t care.

“Better that than having your guts spread in the mud from a sharp blade,” Peter says brusquely, and strides out of the room.

Stiles is left standing there, and somehow that fact that he knows Peter’s right makes it worse.

* * *

Stiles watches as the army rides out.

The wolves number a hundred, but Stiles thinks they look like the most terrifying one hundred warriors he’s ever seen. The men and women from Hale carry weapons, but Stiles knows they're for show, a last resort _. I am a weapon_ echoes in his head. Peter and his father are right at the front, and Peter’s eagerness is frightening, the way his eyes gleam with anticipation, bloodlust. Stiles can see why people refer to him as a Warlord.

Stiles had still been sulking when they went to bed the night before, so he’d left his underthings on and turned his back on his husband pointedly, curling into a tight ball and staying as far away from him as he could. Peter hadn’t said anything, hadn’t tried to approach him, and Stiles wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed by that.

This morning though, Peter had gripped him tightly around the waist, saying, “I need to carry the taste of you into battle,” and Stiles had known it wasn’t a request. He wasn’t sure what Peter meant exactly, but he’d given a shaky nod, not wanting to refuse when there was every chance Peter may not come back. Peter had wasted no time dragging Stiles’s nightclothes off, then he’d flipped Stiles onto his back and nuzzled at his throat, sucking and biting, bruising the soft skin before moving down his body, hands roaming in a way they hadn’t before, exploring, _invading._ He’d tugged at Stiles’s nipples with his teeth, breath hot when he huffed out a laugh as Stiles tried to squirm away from the sting of it. 

He’d nipped bruises into the skin of Stiles belly, kissing and licking his way down, and then, with no warning, taken Stiles’s cock in his mouth, sucked and licked until Stiles was rock hard and aching, half mad with the pleasure of it. Peter had been relentless, holding Stiles in place with a forearm across his stomach, not stopping till Stiles came, and only taking his mouth away when Stiles begged him to stop because it was too much to bear.

Stiles had honestly expected Peter to fuck him, but Peter had seemed content to bury his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck as he writhed and ground against the soft crease of Stiles's thigh, his breath quickening, while Stiles lay there like a rag doll, limp and spent from his own release. Peter hadn’t taken long to come, and afterwards had spent long minutes rubbing his release into Stiles’s skin. Stiles wondered if he’d always smell of Peter no matter how often he washed, and he suspected that was the whole point.

Somehow, instead of making him feel used, the idea that Peter wanted a reminder of him when he rode out to battle made him feel treasured, important. And afterwards, Peter had cupped his face in his hands and finally kissed him, long and slow and sweet, his lips soft and his breath warm, and Stiles thought that maybe that was even better than the sex.

It was only afterwards that Stiles realized it was also the first time his husband had seen him completely naked.

And now he's gone to war.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! It's 5.30am on a Saturday and I'm awake, which is just wrong on so many levels. I appreciate all the comments on the last chapter, I just haven't gotten to answer them yet due to things like work and sleep taking up my time, but I promise I will! In the meantime, have this :) I hope I get to post tomorrow morning, but seeing as I have to be up at FIVE to go fishing, it might be later in the day.

Stiles doesn’t sit in the library and tat lace, but only because he doesn’t know how. He paces, and he scans the horizon, and he eavesdrops in hallways, but he hears nothing. They’ve been gone a week, and he knows that’s no time at all, knows Argent lands are two days’ ride away, but that doesn’t stop him worrying.

Mainly about his father of course. Not so much about Peter. It's not that he doesn't care, because that would make him a monster. No, it’s just that Peter's a werewolf. He'll heal. The king won't. 

He mooches around the place, but the castle is mostly empty, only staff and spouses left, and those too young to fight. He and Scott McCall, who was left behind because of the weakness in his lungs, half-heartedly spar in the training yards, but it’s too close to what’s happening on the battlefield for either of them to take any real pleasure in it. He can’t even hang around the stables, because most of the horses are gone, and Danny reluctantly tells him that he can’t be seen consorting with Stiles while his husband’s at war. Stiles sulks and retreats back to the house.

He and Lady McCall drink a lot of peppermint tea together, and tell each other the lie that it will all be fine.

On the eighth day, as he peers at the empty horizon, Stiles sees something approaching. It’s a wagon. He squints at it, the thought crossing his mind that maybe it's an Argent, and what he sees makes his blood run cold, just for a second. The wagon's surrounded by the royal guard. _His father._ His heart is in his throat as he watches the approach, looking for clues. They’re moving at speed. Stiles knows if the king was dead, there’d be no reason for them to hurry. Something in his chest eases a little - despite the events of the past few weeks, his father still means the world to him, and Stiles isn't sure he could cope if anything happened.

He races out the doors, is waiting by the gates when the entourage rumbles in, hooves clattering against the cobblestones. The cart hasn’t even drawn to a halt before Stiles is flinging open the canvas flaps at the back and peering inside. There, in the shadows, he can barely see his father. His skin is ashen, even in this dim light, and Stiles can see bandages around his ribs and stomach, bloodstained and terrifying. In that moment, any resentment Stiles was holding melts away and he just wants to hold his father in his arms and beg him to please, please be all right.

“Dad?” His father opens his eyes, takes a shuddery breath, and Stiles dares move closer. “How bad is it?” he asks, afraid of the answer.

“Not - as bad - as it looks,” his father manages, and Stiles can see every word is costing him. The flap on the door opens again and a head pokes inside – Erica’s cousin, the healer. Stiles moves aside and lets her in.

She takes a moment to peek under the bandages, lay a hand on the king’s forehead, checking for fever, and she seems satisfied with what she sees. Her tone is gentle but commanding as she says, “Let’s get you inside, and we’ll assess the damage properly.”

The king is carried inside and Stiles paces outside the bedchamber door and waits to be allowed in. He hears a few pained bellows from his father, and some curse words he didn’t even know existed, but nobody comes running out to fetch him, or worse, walking out sombrely like they had from his mother’s room, so he tells himself it’s fine. Finally, the healer emerges, apron smeared with dried blood. “There’s an almighty gash in his side that I had to stitch up, but they didn’t hit anything vital. I flushed out the wound to get rid of any poison from the blade. That’s what had him cursing so.”

Stiles sags in relief. “So he'll be all right? Can I see him?”

She nods. “He'll recover. I gave him tincture of opium, so he might not make sense and he’ll probably sleep, but you can go in as long as you’re quiet.”

Stiles is in the door before she’s finished her sentence.

His father’s eyes open when he hears the door, and his smile is slightly lopsided. “So I’ll live.”

“You’ll live,” Stiles nods, willing it to be true. “What happened?”

“Some brat got a lucky hit while the sun was in my eyes.”

Stiles snorts in disbelief. “Really?”

His father makes a disgruntled noise. “I’m not as young as I was. Just be glad Peter was there to finish him, or I’d have been dead by now.”

“Oh?” Stiles wants to ask more but restrains himself, aware of his father’s fragile state.

His father knows him though, and nods. “Ripped his throat out. With his teeth.”

Stiles feels his gorge rise at the thought of it. “That’s…”

“It’s disgusting is what it is, but it also saved my hide.” The king screws up his face. “Werewolves fight bloody and vicious, but they fight like ten men, and they never back down. It was something, watching them go in with just tooth and claw and tear that army down. They never even drew their swords, and did most of the fighting for us. The Argents, what’s left of them, were retreating, so I guess that means we won.”

Stiles is taken aback. “Already?”

His father gives Stiles another crooked smile. “Your husband fought to defend me, son.” Stiles barely has time to think about the implications of that when his father adds, “I wonder how protective he'd be if I ever told him about Kate’s offer to wed you when you were fourteen?”

What?

Stiles blinks, and wonders if he heard that correctly. This is the first time his father’s ever made mention of an offer. John’s eyes are drifting closed, and it occurs to Stiles that he’s probably not as careful about what he’s saying under the haze of the opium, and if Stiles is going to ask questions, now would be the time. He's careful how he approaches it, though.

“Well, you always said you wouldn't force me to marry,” he says, keeping his tone light.

His father lets out a pained sigh. “I tried, Stiles. Never wanted to have to marry you off. But it’s like vowing that someone won’t die. A promise you can't keep. Empty comfort. You know that.”

Stiles _does_ know. So many people, when his mother was ill, had assured him - had _promised_ him - she’d recover. But for some reason he hadn’t drawn that parallel before now, had overestimated his father’s ability to ignore the needs of the kingdom in favor of what Stiles wanted. He sits there for a minute in silence, less angry at his father than annoyed at himself. He's been holding onto childish notions when really, he should have known better.

His father takes his silence as encouragement to keep talking. “I was never going to send you to Kate, no matter how good the alliance would have been. Her and Gerard turned up, wanting take you in. Gerard said they’d heard you needed a firm hand and they could provide it, could show you your place. You'd marry Kate, and in return they’d declare peace.”

A shiver runs up Stiles’s spine at the thought of his fourteen-year-old self getting shipped off to the Argents. Kate’s cruelty is as legendary as her beauty. But however vicious Kate is, she can't hold a candle to her father. "And you turned them down?" He loves his dad just a little bit more right now.

“Of course I did. You were _four-teeeen,_ ” his father singsongs. In a more serious tone he adds, “Gerard would have broken you. I'd already lost your mother. Couldn't lose you too.” John pauses, letting out a breathy noise that Stiles has only ever heard from his father when he’s deep in his cups. “A week after your seventeenth birthday, Kate asked again. Demanded your hand. Said you were old enough. I still said no. She was furious. So,” his father makes a vague gesture, “I sent a message to Hale, asked Peter for help. Knew Argent would send an army after us, and I’d need him.”

“Wait, I thought the war was for territory?” The thought that they’ve been fighting over Stiles is unthinkable to him.

His father hums. “It is, mostly. But it’s also because Kate’s a spiteful wench who didn't get her way. Why do you think I wanted you far away from battle? She would have snatched you up.” He moves in the bed slightly and emits a pained sound, but then starts humming quietly to himself, and Stiles wonders if he’ll even remember this conversation. His father never speaks so freely, is always one to play his cards close to his chest, so Stiles decides to press further.

“Did you really need Peter's army so much that you'd trade me for it?"

“Not _trade_ you,” his father argues, waving a hand even as his eyelids flutter closed. “ _Protect_ you. Once Peter knew Kate was a threat, he said he'd marry you. It was the best solution. Wolves are possessive. You're pack, and Peter will fight tooth and claw for you. You'll be _safe."_

It still smacks of being treated like a chattel. “But you married me to someone I don't even know.”

John rouses himself enough to lift his head, and Stiles sees the pain in his eyes. "It was the only way. Anything was better than the Argents having you. _Anything._ Kate likes to hurt people for fun. And you're my boy, gotta keep you safe."

"And Peter will keep me safe?" Stiles asks quietly, the wheels in his head turning as he tries to make sense of all his father's ramblings.

John nods. "Peter likes you. And he 'll kill Kate the first chance he gets." He makes a swiping motion that Stiles thinks is meant to be claws. He stares at a point in space two inches above Stiles's left ear _._ "Peter likes _men,_ " he whispers hoarsely, like it's a secret. "And so do you. So it worked out. And I won't lose you now." John's body starts to list sideways as he nods to himself, and mumbles, _"Safe."_

And with that he's gone, head tilting to the side and mouth dropping open in sleep.

Stiles watches over him for a few minutes, but John doesn't stir. Stiles sits and turns it all over in his mind, comes to terms with this new information.

His father hasn’t thrown him to the wolves after all. He's done his best to keep Stiles safe from a threat he didn't even know existed. He obviously trusts Peter to do the same, and his father's trust is a hard-won thing. _  
_

It’s not ideal, not even close. His father could have just _talked_ to him, explained about Kate. But compared to being her plaything? Peter's not a bad option. And at least the decision to marry Stiles off makes more sense, as does the insistence on keeping him out of battle.

He shudders at the thought of ending up in Gerard and Kate's hands, being _shown his place.  
_

Stiles settles into the chair next to the bed to keep watch, and resigns himself to the fact that he’s going to have to apologize to his father at some stage for ever doubting him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get this early because like hell am I getting up at 4.30 am to post it before fishing, so I'm putting it up tonight instead.

Stiles hovers around his dad's bedside for all of the next day.

The healer reports that the wound shows no sign of infection, but Stiles insists on seeing for himself and then immediately regrets it - the wound is long and jagged, blood oozing round the stitches, and Stiles recalls too late that he’s never been good with the sight of blood and has to sit with his head between his knees.

Perhaps it was for the best that he didn’t go into battle, he thinks.

But once the healer assures him that the king is truly on the mend, Stiles lets himself relax and be entertained by his father’s opium - induced ramblings.

John’s normally close-mouthed demeanor is nowhere to be seen, causing Stiles to shake his head fondly. He summons Stiles close and whispers into his ear that he and Melissa are in love, and he’s going to marry that woman because there’s a baby, did Stiles know? Stiles feigns surprise, tells his dad he’s happy for him. His father beams, falls asleep for ten minutes, and when he next wakes, tells Stiles all over again. 

Stiles looks across at Melissa, who's sitting in a chair unnoticed by the king, and they both bite their lip in an effort to stifle a laugh.

The next time he gets dosed the King gets slightly maudlin, telling Stiles that he’ll miss him when he leaves, but that Peter’s a good man, “underneath all that wolf.” He sighs about the lack of future grandchildren, but Stiles reminds him that Melissa’s expecting and he'll have his own son or daughter to play with. John had apparently forgotten and perks right up at that, before sleeping away the rest of the day.

* * *

It’s another three days before the rest of the army returns.

The king's propped up in a makeshift bed in the dining hall, because now he's taking less painkillers he claims he’s sick of the sight of his bedroom walls. As Stiles expected, his father doesn't remember a thing about his drugged ramblings, but that's okay. Stiles remembers.

He’s there engaged in a game of chess with his father, getting solidly beaten, when he hears the troops arrive. Stiles doesn’t examine the relief he feels too closely, tells himself it’s just because everyone’s home safe and the battle’s over. The horses clatter into the courtyard amid shouting and cheering, and at a nod from his father Stiles races outside. At the head of the troops, riding shoulder to shoulder, are Peter and Derek.

Both of them are shifted, terrifying and awe-inspiring all at once, and they both have something dangling from the claws of one hand. They dismount and march into the castle, and Stiles follows them. “Where’s the king?” Peter demands of the nearest servant, and the young boy blanches and points the way with a shaking finger.

Stiles sees exactly what Peter’s carrying, and blanches as well.

Peter presents the bloodied head of Kate Argent to his father with a sickening squelch, dropping into onto the table in front of him. Derek shakes his claws loose from where they were embedded in Gerard’s scalp and drops it onto the table as well. Stiles can’t look away from the gruesome sight.

These heads haven’t been sliced off with neatly with a blade - they’ve been ripped clean off.

“The battle’s done,” Peter declares. “Christopher Argent surrendered. Wants to sign a truce.”

The king gives a satisfied nod. “He’s the only one of them that’s ever been worth anything.” He indicates the heads. “Very impressive. Are you always so dramatic?”

Peter flashes red eyes. “When the occasion warrants it.”

He swats Kate’s head off the table, and her pink-tinged blonde hair goes flying before the head hits the stone floor with a wet thud. Then Peter leans over, plucks a linen napkin off the table and carefully wipes the blood off his claws, before dropping it over her blank, open eyes.

Stiles bolts out of the room and finds a handy bucket to be sick in.

* * *

Stiles is in his room, scrubbing at his teeth furiously when the door bangs open. Peter stalks into the room, ripping off his blood and sweat stained clothing as he goes. He’s back in his human form, but the animal’s still there in the way he moves, rangy and sleek, prowling. “Stiles?” he calls, his voice rough.

Stiles steps out of his bathing chamber, and barely has a moment to take a breath before Peter has him pinned against the wall. “ _We won_. I dragged Kate right off her horse, screeching and wailing. Then I tied her up and carried her and her father right to the gates of the city, listened to them threaten and curse for two days." He stops talking long enough to bury his face in the crook of Stiles neck, breathing deeply. "I let Derek kill the old man, and I ripped Kate’s head from her neck an hour ago, so the kill would be fresh to present to your father,” he growls, mouth pressed against Stiles’s ear. 

Stiles swallows. “I saw.”

"Kate had to pay for what she took from me," Peter hisses. "And pay she did." Peter sounds darkly satisfied at that, and knowing what Kate did, what she took, Stiles can't say he blames him.

And then Peter’s kissing him. No, not kissing, _devouring_. He’s forceful, insistent, and all Stiles can do is go along with it. Peter grinds against him, hot and heavy and naked, and then he’s plucking and tugging at Stiles’s clothing, muttering “Off, take it off,” seemingly uncaring when the fabric rips, and now Stiles is naked except for his underthings.

Peter flicks out one razor sharp claw, and then those are gone as well, a shredded heap on the ground.

Stiles has heard of this, of course he has, whispered stories of returning soldiers overcome with battle-lust, so he’s not surprised when Peter picks him up, throws him on the bed and pins him there. His heartbeat’s rabbit-quick in his chest, and he should probably be terrified, except he’s not. There's something thrilling about the way Peter is right now, the satisfaction and triumph rolling off him in waves, and it makes Stiles's breathing speed up and his blood sing. It doesn’t even cross his mind to say no, not when he wants this too.

Peter buries his face in the crook of Stiles neck and rocks forward, causing his erection to rub against Stiles where he’s half hard. “That’s it, good boy,” he mutters, hitching his hips and changing position so their cocks rub just right, and it’s too dry and too rough but Stiles gets hard anyway.

Peter licks the palm of Stiles’s hand and tugs it between them, guiding him so Stiles is wrapping his hand around their cocks, and Stiles finds the drag of skin on skin irresistible, addictive. Stiles thrusts into his hand and rubs against Peter’s length desperately, letting out needy sounds. Peter latches onto the curve of Stiles’s neck and sucks hard, and the prickling sensation of blood being pulled to the surface has Stiles whimpering and begging. Peter growls low in his throat and comes with a shudder, and Stiles thrusts into his curled palm once more before following him.

They lie there together, a panting, sticky mess. Stiles can’t move, and Peter doesn’t seem inclined to, so they stay like that for the time being. Eventually though, Peter raises his head. “Get the maid to fill the bath,” he says hoarsely. “I need to soak away the stink of death.”

He rolls off to one side, and Stiles catches sight of flecks of dried blood in Peter’s hair. He forces himself to look away and goes to send for Erica.

* * *

After his bath, (Stiles makes a point of not looking at the reddish tinge of the water), Peter goes to see the king, Stiles trailing behind him. 

John nods at them both in greeting. "I take it you've come to tell me you're leaving soon?" he asks.

"Leaving?" Stiles echoes dumbly. Surely they're not leaving yet, not with his father in his weakened condition?

But Peter nods. “We ride out in the morning. It's time to go home.”

Stiles sputters out a protest. “We can’t leave! I need to take care of my dad! He’s still sick!”

Peter rolls his eyes and taps his foot impatiently. “And the healer will care of him. Your place is with me. Be packed and ready to leave at dawn.”

And there it is.

He’d almost forgotten, truth be told, that this was how it would be. But now reality lodges like a stone in Stiles’s gut. He’s leaving Beacon, and he doesn’t know when he’ll be back. _If_ he’ll be back. He wants to argue further, to ask for a little longer, but one look at Peter’s closed off expression that tells him it would be pointless.

So he mutters a quiet, “Yes, Alpha,” and drags himself off to find Erica.

They pack his belongings in near silence, leaving a large quantity behind, Peter having told him, “Only pack what you need. I’ll get you some sturdier clothing when we arrive home,” so Stiles mainly sticks to his everyday wear. Erica insists he pack his formal cloak and at least one respectable set of clothing, and he doesn’t have the energy to disagree.

She starts to say something once or twice, but stops herself, and Stiles is grateful, because he’s barely holding on right now. He folds and sorts and throws out things that he doesn’t need, while his mind works overtime and his nervousness comes flooding back. It takes till early evening they to get to the end of it, and Erica finally speaks. “It mightn’t be so bad.”

“It might be. It might be terrible.”

She has no reply to that, so she just pulls him close and holds him, until he pushes her away and shakes his head, because her kindness cuts like a knife, makes everything so much worse. The packed trunks are sent downstairs, and Stiles is left looking around a room that’s stripped almost bare. It’s enough to cause a lump in his throat, and he does his best to hold back the tears, not wanting to turn up to the dinner table red eyed and blotchy.

It’s a losing battle.

He’s alone, and he’s afraid, and his whole life is packed in four trunks. He gives in, curls himself up into a ball, and lets the tears flow. Sobs wrack his body, and part of him hopes Peter will come looking for him and comfort him, tell him it’ll be okay, but another part of him wants to be alone in his misery.

In the end he cries himself to sleep.

He wakes an hour later, eyes gritty and nose stuffed. He doesn’t feel any better than he did before, but at least he has a little more control over his emotions now, can push them down and present a brave face to the world. He washes his face and stares at himself in the mirror. His eyes are red, and there’s a bruise visible on his neck from where Peter bedded him.

He shifts his collar around so it’s covered, and tries not to think about Peter’s hands on his body, his mouth on him. It felt good, and Stiles can’t really say Peter’s forced him into anything after that first time, but he wonders if that will last, once he’s away from the safety of his home and out from under his father’s protection. His dad seems confident that Peter's a good man, but who can tell?

Still. It is what it is.

He takes some deeps breaths, pulls himself together, and heads down the stairs.

And if he sends up a silent prayer for reassurance, asks for some sort of sign that Erica’s right, that it won’t be so bad? Well, that’s between him and the old gods that he prays to.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a baby chapter today, but it's all we needed, because as a bonus -
> 
> FANART FANART FANART!
> 
> The wonderful and extremely talented [Fearful_little_thing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fearful_little_thing/) has drawn warlord Peter!  
> Bow at their greatness!

* * *

Sometimes, the old gods hear.

And sometimes they answer.

Stiles walks into the dining hall, and the sight that greets him is that of Peter at his father’s bedside, sheets pulled back exposing the long ugly wound in the king's side. Stiles stands still and silent, watching from the doorway. Peter has a hand against the king’s ribs, and long black lines are snaking up his arm. In a softer tone that Stiles has ever heard him use, he asks, “Better, Majesty?”

The king lets out a long breath, and clamps a hand over Peter’s. “Much. Are you sure you have to leave?”

“I'm sure. We've been away too long. Besides, there's a full moon coming and I want to get back to pack lands for that. But I’ll leave one of my men to take care of your pain. Perhaps Boyd - he seems taken with the fair haired maid. I'm sure he won't mind an excuse to stay.”

“I appreciate it. I'll miss Stiles though. Promise you'll be good to him?"

"I'll be as good to him as I know how. I'd much prefer he be happy with me."

Stiles's eyes widen. Peter actually cares?

"And what we discussed," his father says quietly. "You'll keep your word?”

“I gave you an Alpha's promise, John. You know what that means." An Alpha's promise, Stiles knows, is an unbreakable vow. Whatever Peter said, he means it. "And I'll bring Stiles to see you often, starting when we come back to negotiate the treaty with Argent.”

Stiles slips away and scurries up to his room. He needs time to think, to process what he just heard. Peter wants him to be happy. He’s going to let Stiles visit. And he’s leaving someone for his dad, to help with the pain. Stiles thinks about what it means, for him to do those things.

They're unexpected kindnesses, and they reassure him. They aren't the actions of a heartless beast.

When he heads for the dining room a second time, Stiles finds his father tucked into his bed dozing, and Peter sitting with Derek and talking in quiet voices so as not to disturb him. He walks over to Peter and puts a hand on his arm, and when Peter raises an eyebrow at him he simply says, “I’m packed. I’m ready to go.”

He’s not, not really, but Peter doesn’t call him on the lie.

* * *

When they wake the next morning, Peter doesn’t slide a hand around to grip Stiles’s length, or rut up against him where his nightgown’s ridden up. He nuzzles the back of Stiles’s neck for a second, placing a soft kiss on the fading bitemark, before pulling the blankets back and declaring, "Come on. It’s time to get moving.” It’s freezing cold, and still dark out to boot. Stiles whines and tries to drag the blankets back over himself. The next thing he knows, there’s a sharp sting as Peter gives his exposed ass a playful slap. It's not hard, but it's effective.

Stiles’s eyes snap open. “Ow! What was that for?” He rubs his hand over the spot, pouting.

Peter smirks. “Because you seemed to need a little help to get moving. Do you need another, or can you get out of bed now? ”

Stiles guesses there’ll be no handjobs this morning.

When he makes it downstairs, still half asleep, the rest of the pack are all waiting. There’s a hot breakfast and they’re all eating where they stand, dressed for travel and exuding an air of anticipation. Stiles eats at Peter’s urging, and tries to fight down his disquiet. He’s only ever been outside of Beacon once, when he was a very small boy and went with his mother to visit her family. All he remembers of the trip is the everything _smelled_ different, and he didn’t understand what they were saying.

At least this time he knows the language.

Before they leave, he goes in search of Erica, finds her in the kitchen. She hurries over, a frown marring her brow, but he gives her a weak smile. “I just wanted to tell you. I think – I think you’re right.” He clears his throat, before saying, “I think it might be okay.”

The worry lines disappear, and relief is written on her face. ”I’m glad,” she says quietly. "I’ll miss you, sweet prince.” She leans in to steal a quick hug before the housekeeper spots her.

The wolves pack the carts, and it’s something to see. They lift Stiles’s trunks like they were filled with tissue paper and stack them efficiently. Stiles tries to help with one or two of the smaller pieces but after he nearly gets bowled over yet again, Peter puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him out of the way. “Leave them to it, Stiles. They know what they’re doing.”

And indeed, the whole thing runs like clockwork. Peter announces that Boyd will be staying behind to aid the king while he recovers and as extra security in case Chris Argent decides to send an assassin. “You don’t think he will, do you?” Stiles asks Peter, nerves gnawing at his insides.

“I highly doubt it. He's the only one of that family has any decency. Now come on, say goodbye to your father. It's time to go.”

Stiles would protest, but then Peter has an inexplicable need to talk to Boyd, and leaves Stiles alone with his father so they can say their goodbyes. When he returns he doesn't rush them, just waits patiently while Stiles gives his father one last, careful hug. "I'll be back," Stiles whispers.

"I know you will son." His father runs a hand through Stiles's tousled locks affectionately, squeezes him as tightly as he can manage, and gives him a grin. "You'll be fine."

Stiles can't put it off any longer. He follows Peter outside, mounts his horse, and then he's on his way to his new home.

He does his best not to look back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is I, returned triumphant and not even hungover from visiting my brothers!   
> It's a little late today, but I'll try and get my act together for tomorrow I promise.

Travelling, Stiles decides, is terrible.

He’s been astride his horse for hours. His thighs ache, his ass burns, and all he can smell is horse sweat. He’s pretty sure he’ll never walk straight again. And it’s _boring._ There’s nothing much to see, just miles and miles of long grass broken up by the occasional stand of trees. And the further they ride, the worse it gets. Stiles doesn't like the horse he's on and he's certain the feeling's mutual. The beast refuses to follow the simplest of instructions and instead does what it wants to while Stiles clings awkwardly to the saddle.

Peter’s right at the head of the column, and Stiles tried to keep up at first, but somehow, for all the time he's spent at the stables, he hasn't done that much actual riding. His experience with horses mainly consists of ogling the stable boy and going for short rides on a summer afternoon. He soon falls behind, till he can no longer even see his husband, or hear his loud laugh as he teases his nephew about something.

Not that he _wants_ Peter near him. It’s just comforting, having at least one familiar face that he’s swapped more than a dozen words with, that’s all. The rest of the wolves are strangers to him, giving him curious glances, some of them subtly sniffing the air and then hiding their grins, and Stiles knows they can tell exactly what he and Peter do under the covers.

He keeps thinking they must stop for a break soon, but the hours stretch on and the army stretches out and they don’t stop, not even once. So Stiles squares his shoulders and sits as straight as he can in the saddle, which isn't very, and tries to ignore the insistent pressure in his bladder, and he rides and he rides and he rides.

Cora comes back to where he is briefly and tells him they’ll probably stop soon, and he’s glad to hear it, but then she rolls her eyes at his slow pace and rides off, and he’s left alone again. He tries to urge his horse on, but it continues to ignore him and meanders on in a maddeningly slow gait, until he’s so far behind that he’s back with the carts.

He’s just resigned himself to his position as pack straggler when he hears a piercing whistle. The column in front of him draws to a halt, and he hears hooves thundering towards him. He’s startled to see Peter racing back along the column, dust flying as he urges his mount on faster, until he comes to a sudden halt in front of Stiles.

“The Alpha mate should be riding with the Alpha. Why are you dawdling?” he demands.

If his sudden arrival and sharp tone startled Stiles, it terrifies his mount, who rears up suddenly. Stiles grabs for the reins wildly, but it’s no good and he finds himself falling. He hits the dirt with a resounding thud, and all the air’s knocked out of his lungs.

Peter’s off his horse in an instant, crouching next to Stiles and running his hands gently over him, searching for injury. “Are you hurt?” Stiles thinks he’s probably going to have an impressive bruise on his backside, but the nearby riders are already snickering, so he shakes his head. Peter raises his eyebrows. "So you're fine to remount and come and ride up front with me?"

Stiles makes a vague gesture and reaches for the reins. The horse skitters away. Peter folds his arms as he asks, "Stiles, can you even ride? And I don't mean ten minutes in the meadow prancing around like a fool."

"I - sort of?" Stiles hedges. He points at the creature that's currently baring its teeth at him. "That horse just doesn’t like me.”

“The horse doesn’t like you,” Peter repeats flatly.

Stiles nods. "It's done nothing but pull and stall and be difficult."

Peter scrubs a hand through his hair and huffs in annoyance. “You know, it would have been useful to know that you needed a nursemaid and leading strings _before_ we started out, but since ‘ _your horse_ _doesn’t like you_ ,’ we’ll make do.”

Strong hands grab Stiles round the waist, and Peter deposits him on the back of his own mount, a huge black stallion with wild eyes and a sneer to match it's rider's. Just as Stiles is about to ask how he’s supposed to control a great beast like this, Peter mounts expertly and settles behind him. “You can’t ride alone, and I don’t have time to pick you out of the dirt, so you can ride with me.” He wraps one arm round Stiles’s middle pulling him back against his chest, and with a click of his tongue they’re moving again.

This is how _children_ ride. Stiles’s face is burning as he hears some of the other wolves chuckling. Nobody else is moving, all milling about, and it turns out that Peter’s only riding them back to the front of the pack. “We’ll take a break. Stretch your legs, eat and drink something, and do what you need to, because we won’t stop till nightfall after this, so you'd best make the most of it.”

Stiles slides promptly out of the saddle, and follows the throng of people heading over to a nearby copse of trees to relieve himself. He goes looking for the supply cart and is startled when Derek steps in front of him and hands him an apple. "Ignore Peter's mood. He's just nervous about taking you home."

Stiles gapes, open mouthed. " _He's_ nervous?"

Derek shrugs. "Hale's different from Beacon. You might not like it."

"But he's the Alpha. Why would you think he's nervous?" Derek just raises an eyebrow and taps his nose before walking away.

And indeed, Stiles is chewing on the apple and frowning at the thought the rest of the day in the saddle when a hand clasps his wrist. He looks up into blue eyes and a contrite expression. “I honestly thought with the amount of time you spent at the stables you’d be a decent horseman,” Peter says, and his earlier annoyance is nowhere to be seen. Maybe Derek's right, Stiles muses.

Stiles knows an olive branch when he sees one, so he decides to meet his husband halfway. He gives a shrug and a smile. "Turns out you have to actually ride the horses, not just flirt badly with the stable boy.” May as well own his weaknesses.

Peter startles him with a laugh, and Stiles relaxes. Then Peter leads him away from everyone, over into the shade of the trees. “Turn around for me.”

Stiles has no idea what Peter wants, but he does as he’s told. A warm hand slides up his shirt, then down into the waist of his trousers, cupping his ass. Stiles barely has a second to wonder what Peter's doing before he feels it, the way the deep ache from the fall and the burn in his muscles melts away. He lets out a moan, and Peter gives his ass a squeeze, rubbing his hand over the flesh. “You make such pretty sounds for me, princeling,” Peter purrs. Stiles still hasn’t figured out if the name’s a term of endearment or an insult, and he’s honestly not brave enough to ask. Right now, Peter's making him feel better, and that's all he cares about.

Peter leads Stiles back to the horses, and Stiles is definitely able to move more freely with the pain gone. “Thank you,” he says, before hesitantly adding, “Alpha.”

Peter’s face lights up at that. “You’re welcome, lamb. Now up you get, we’ve a lot of ground to cover.”

Stiles manages to get himself onto the horse without humiliating himself, and counts it a win. Peter nestles in behind him, settles them properly, then throws back his head and _howls_.

The rest of the pack immediately spring into action, mounting their horses and starting to move en masse. Peter leads out at a solid gallop, seemingly able to command his horse with the merest flick of the reins while travelling at breathtaking speeds, and Stiles’s heart is racing by the time they slow down, but it’s not from fear, it’s from exhilaration. He lets out a shaky laugh. “You go so fast!”

He can _hear_ the grin when Peter murmurs in his ear, “That’s because _my_ horse likes me.”

* * *

Stiles spends the rest of the day crammed onto the front of Peter’s saddle, and it’s both better and worse than trying to keep up on his own. Better, because the horse does as it’s told, and he’s tucked up snug and secure against Peter’s chest. And worse, because being tucked up snug and secure against Peter’s chest means he can feel the corded muscle pressed against his back, the cock against his ass, and Peter’s hand splayed on his belly, the thumb tracing lazy patterns through the fabric of his shirt as they ride. It’s the longest stretch of time they’ve spent together awake since they wed, and although they don't talk much, the silence is comfortable, and the stray touches welcome. Stiles also gets to watch Peter with the rest of his pack, and he notes that while they treat him with due deference, they aren’t cowed. Respectful? Yes. Fearful? Definitely not.

He can almost feel the excitement thrumming through Peter the closer to Hale lands they get, and the rest of the pack are the same, all looser in their bodies, smiling and laughing as they ride, happy to be going home. They break for the night at a town near the border and set up camp. After they’ve eaten Peter disappears and produces a bedroll from somewhere, and when he looks around Stiles can see the other wolves doing the same. Peter picks a spot where they’re protected from the wind by an outcrop of rock and unrolls the bedding, looking at Stiles expectantly.

Stiles glances around. “Where are the tents?”

Peter wrestles off his riding boots and slides between the blankets. “Wolves don’t need them. Don't worry, lamb. I'll keep you warm," he adds with a smirk.

Stiles loses his own boots and climbs into the bedroll, and Peter gathers him close. He doesn’t do anything but curl up along Stiles’s back though, and within minutes he’s asleep, his breath tickling the back of Stiles’s neck. Stiles squirms around in his grip until he’s able to lie on his back, looking up at the night sky. He's never slept in the outdoors before, and part of him savors the novelty. The stars are beautiful, and it soothes him somehow, looking at the vast darkness broken up by bright pinpoints of light.

Tomorrow, he’ll be in his new home.


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles tries to roll over when he wakes, and can’t help the whimper that leaves him as his leg muscles seize. A hand’s suddenly sliding into his pants. “Shhh,” Peter soothes, voice rough with sleep, and Stiles feels the aches drain away. Peter’s hand lingers longer than it probably should, but then he runs his palm over Stiles’s ass just once before pulling away, and Stiles is left gloriously pain free. This werewolf husband thing has definite perks, he decides.

Peter pulls the blankets back and helps Stiles to his feet, and then he’s striding off across the camp, calling out instructions and getting everyone moving, leaving Stiles standing awkwardly. When he looks around, he can see that the sun’s high in the sky and it occurs to him that Peter’s let everyone sleep in, at least a little. It’s strangely considerate.

He eats, relieves himself in the trees, and packs up the bedroll to the best of his ability, and then Peter’s hoisting him into the saddle and they’re moving, faster than yesterday. Stiles can feel anticipation prickling in the air, knows everyone’s keen to cross the border into Hale, to get home.

Stiles isn’t sure where home is.

It’s half a day’s ride till they get there, and the army goes thundering into their own country, whooping and howling to signal their return. Peter’s face splits into a bigger grin than Stiles has ever seen. “Welcome to Hale,” Peter says, taking his arm away from around Stiles’s waist long enough to gesture the lands around them. Truthfully, it looks exactly like Beacon, but Stiles appreciates the sentiment.

As they ride further into the country Stiles sees clusters of houses come into view, and as they progress the warriors start to leave the column in ones and twos, coming up to Peter and paying their respects before riding off to their homes. By the time they reach the central compound later that day, there are barely a dozen riders left.

The compound is as far from the castle at Beacon as you could get. There’s what looks like a central meeting hall with an outdoor kitchen, surrounded by an open field that contains a giant fire pit, and then a series of smaller houses scattered around it, like the spokes of a wheel. The area between the houses is vast, and there’s a variety of outbuildings. One of the houses is larger than the others and the flag of Hale hangs from a standard near the front porch, but it’s still just a single-story dwelling. The last of the group bow their heads to Peter, and then they separate off to various houses. Derek’s greeted by a dark-skinned woman, and Stiles sees a tiny redhead with a small child on her hip swoop in and kiss Cora when she dismounts.

Then it’s just them.

They dismount and Peter walks his horse to what must be the stables. Stiles follows along. Peter doesn’t rush, just mutters nonsense praises into the animal’s ear as he leads it to the watering trough, rubbing it down while the animal takes in great drafts of water. Stiles is slightly put out at coming second to livestock, so he walks up to the door of the house with the flag and knocks, expecting there’ll be someone there to let him in. There’s no reply. He knocks again, and finally pulls at the handle. The door’s locked. He huffs in frustration and goes back to the stable.

Peter’s just finished seeing to the horse’s needs, and he turns to Stiles.

“Why haven't you gone inside?”

“Because the door’s locked.”

Peter frowns. “Sorry. I should have remembered to open it for you first, but living alone is a hard habit to break.”

Stiles, who has never lived alone in his life, takes Peter’s word for it. Peter opens the door and Stiles steps inside. It’s quiet, quieter than any house he’s been in. “You really live completely alone?”

Peter shakes his head. “There’s generally pack around the place and I have a housekeeper who cooks for me, but for tonight, it’s just us.”

_Just us._

“Oh.” Stiles thinks about that for a minute. “But who will feed us?”

“She will have left us a cold supper.”

Stiles moves further inside the house, eyes roving curiously. It’s bigger than it looks from the outside. Branching off from the entry hall there are several side rooms and a long corridor. The floors under his feet are polished wood, not stone, and the place is what he can only term rustic. “Not quite a castle, but I like it.” Peter’s voice is right by his ear, and Stiles startles, making Peter laugh.

Strong hands grip him around the waist from behind and Peter pulls him in close, resting his chin on Stiles’s shoulder. “It must be good to be home,” Stiles offers, just for something to say.

“It is.” Peter already seems less tightly wound than he has been since Stiles met him. He makes a happy sound and nuzzles in close. “No more pomp and ceremony, lords and ladies, scared little servant girls scurrying away from the big bad wolf. I won’t miss it.”

Stiles has never not been surrounded by pomp and ceremony and servants. He thinks he could get used to it, though. Talking about it reminds him. He raises an arm and sniffs, wrinkling his nose. “I’m filthy from the ride. Who’s going to draw my bath if there’s just us?”

He doesn’t think it’s an unreasonable question – he’s been looking forwards to a decent wash for the last few hours.

Peter smirks. “We don’t use a bath, Stiles, We wash outdoors. Follow me.” He leads Stiles by the hand through to the back of the house and out the door. They follow a well-worn path that winds through the woods, getting further and further from the house, and Stiles has a horrible feeling that he’s going to end up shivering in a cold stream - Peter seems to forget that he’s human sometimes.

He’s just about to ask where they’re going when he hears the murmur of voices close by, and then they round a corner. He’s met with the sight of what’s almost a lake, with about a dozen smaller pools and inlets. There are probably twenty people in the various pools around the place, and Derek raises a hand and gives a lazy wave from where he’s soaking in the cloudy water, the woman Stiles saw earlier perched in his lap. There are wisps of steam coming off the surface of the water, and Stiles breaks into a delighted grin.

“You never said you had hot springs! I was expecting a cold stream or something.”

Peter’s eyes sparkle with merriment at Stiles’s reaction. “I know. I wanted to surprise you. Does this meet your needs, lamb?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, just strips off his clothes and steps into the nearest pool, apparently completely unconcerned that everyone there can see his nakedness. It quickly occurs to Stiles that they’re probably _all_ naked. Peter stops two steps in and extends a hand. “If you’re shy, there’s a cold washcloth back at the house. The choice is yours.”

Stiles bites his lip, and tries not to pay any attention to the other wolves. They certainly don’t seem to be paying any attention to him. And the heat coming from the water is certainly tempting. In the end, he peels out of his filthy clothes, leaving on his drawers, and steps into the water. Peter gives Stiles a pleased smile, and guides him into the deeper water, steering him to a spot near the edge where they can sit and there’s smooth stone for them to lean their backs against.

Stiles can’t help the moan he lets out as he sinks into the hot water. It smells like the healer’s tent, something peppery and strange, but the heat is soothing on his skin, like an embrace. Peter nestles in beside him and throws an arm over his shoulders, holding him close, and Stiles is very, very aware that Peter’s naked.

That everyone’s naked, bar him.

But it’s been a long few days, he’s tired and filthy, and nobody seems to care except him, so he tries not to dwell on it, tries not to stare at Derek’s naked form when the man stands and walks across to them in thigh deep water, his partner in tow. Stiles _definitely_ does his best to avert his eyes from the gentle swell of the woman’s breasts, the softness of her belly, the dark thatch of hair between her legs. He’s not entirely successful, and he can feel the blush rising on his neck and face.

Derek doesn’t seem to notice, but Peter does. Of course he does. “I told you on our wedding night, princeling. Wolves like to be bare. Best get used to it,” Peter reminds him. A hand moves under the cloudy water and tugs at the string of his drawers, gentle, teasing. “You’ll regret wearing these. They’ll cling and be cold and unpleasant. Are you sure you won't take them off? There’s nothing you have that we haven’t seen before.”

“But everyone hasn’t seen _mine,_ and it’s my choice if I display it,” Stiles snaps, trying and failing to move away. All the tension in his body returns and gathers in a knot at the base of his skull. Peter won’t force the issue, surely?

Peter moves his hand away with a low chuckle. “Relax, little prince. I’m not about to strip you naked and seduce you in the hot springs.” Stiles takes a moment to ponder on Peter’s uncanny ability to ease his fears while still being a tease. He’d say it was a wolf thing, but he suspects it’s a Peter thing.

“The springs aren’t the best place for a seduction anyway,” Derek chimes in. “The rocks are too slippery.” He’s smiling as he says it, and when Braeden stifles a giggle Stiles knows there’s a story there.

Peter throws back his head and laughs. “I remember it, pup. We heard you yelp from the house.”

Derek’s eyes are wide as he affects an innocent look. “What can I say? I was seventeen and eager. I thought it would be romantic.”

“Ah, yes. A cracked skull. Passion personified,” Peter snorts. Stiles snickers at that, and Peter’s smile widens.

Stiles is grateful that the attention’s off him, and even more grateful when Derek and his lady sink back under the water and settle in next to them, because now he doesn’t have to avoid looking at their bodies. Of course, it means that he’s now sitting with three naked werewolves next to him instead of one, but it’s still better than having Derek’s cock at eye level.

Derek and Peter and the woman, who Stiles learns is called Braeden, continue to talk quietly, and Stiles closes his eyes and sinks down further into the water, letting the voices wash over him. The knot of tension eases, and he almost doesn’t notice when Peter’s hand starts to run up and down his thigh absently. It’s nice, soothing, and he hums contentedly. Peter doesn’t do anything other than stroke his thigh, and after a few minutes Stiles relaxes even further. He’s heard of hot springs before but never experienced them, and he soon finds himself sliding deeper into the water as every ache eases, every muscle relaxes.

He must doze, because although Peter’s hand is still idly stroking his leg when he finally opens his eyes, his fingers are pruny and wrinkled, the sun's dipping low in the sky, and Derek and Braeden have moved off, leaving them alone. He never even noticed them go. Peter’s watching him with an expression that Stiles might almost call fond. “Shall we go inside before you slide under and drown?” he suggests.

“Mmmm. Maybe.” Stiles really doesn’t want to move, but his stomach rumbles loudly. Peter stands and extends a hand, and Stiles lets himself be hauled onto his feet. Soaking in the springs has somehow turned his bones to liquid, and he totters unsteadily, almost slipping. Peter wraps his arms around him to steady him, and the next thing Stiles knows he’s been swept off his feet and Peter’s carrying him out of the water.

He flaps his arms in useless protest, but Peter says, “Unlike my nephew, you won’t recover if you hit your head on the rocks,” and Stiles has to concede, it’s a fair point. As Peter predicted, he’s regretting the decision to keep his underwear on now, because not only are they cold and clingy, they’re also see through, rendering them pointless. Peter’s body is warm against his, but he still shivers as the cold evening air hits his skin. Peter tsks at him and carries him over to a small building. He opens the door to reveal a room full of towels and blankets, setting Stiles down.

“You have towels just for the springs?” Stiles doesn’t know why that’s so surprising.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Of course we do. We’re werewolves, Stiles. Not animals.”

His hands move briskly over Stiles’s body, drying him off. When he reaches the dripping underwear he pauses, asking the question wordlessly. Stiles shrugs. “Off,” he decides.

Peter peels him out of the wet fabric quickly and then goes back to drying him. Stiles can’t say he doesn’t enjoy the feeling of warm hands on him, and it’s almost a shame when Peter stops. Peter picks up a soft deerskin blanket and wraps Stiles in it, before picking him up again and carrying him back to the house. Stiles, still limp and pliant from the springs, doesn’t bother to protest. He just curls in close, which earns him a kiss to the top of his head.

When they get back to the house Stiles belatedly realizes all his clothes are still packed in his trunks, but Peter sets him down carefully and comes back with a linen shirt of his own, sliding it over his head. It’s too big, hangs halfway down his thighs and gapes at the neck, exposing his collarbones. Peter makes a pleased chuffing noise at the sight. Stiles just gives him a sleepy smile in return.

Peter settles him in an armchair with the animal skin draped over him and sets about lighting the fire, and once it’s blazing, he disappears for a few minutes, returning with a tray loaded with cold pork, bread, cheese and fruit. Stiles blinks at the sight, but he’s too comfortable to move. After a minute Peter heaves a sigh and hoists Stiles into his lap, feeding him tiny morsels by hand. “You really are hopeless, aren’t you lamb?”

“Mhmm,” Stiles manages, just before Peter pops a grape into his mouth.

Peter gives a tiny shake of his head. “Fragile little thing. How on earth have you survived this long?”

“Not fragile, just human,” Stiles objects.

“They’re the same thing, surely,” Peter says, and feeds Stiles bits of cold pork so that he can’t argue back.

Eventually the tray’s empty and Stiles feels like he can work his limbs again, but he doesn’t move from where he is. It’s been a long day, and Peter’s presence at his back is soothing. He's warm and full and content, and perhaps that's why, from somewhere in the back of Stiles’s brain, a previously unconsidered possibility makes itself known.

Maybe they could be happy.

* * *

Peter leads him to bed once Stiles fully recovers the use of his limbs, and Stiles doesn’t miss the way the hand at the small of his back drifts lower. It’s nothing he wasn’t expecting. It’s their first night back, and they’re alone in the house. Of course Peter will want to claim him.

Peter trails a finger down the back of his thigh and Stiles does his best not to tense up. He mustn’t succeed entirely, because Peter silently removes his hand. Stiles is surprised at the depth of his disappointment.

Stiles has never been brave, not really.

But he’s married a stranger, been bedded in public, ridden across the country, and stood near naked in the company of wolves. Maybe, he thinks, he can manage this. So he looks Peter in the eye, reaches out, and takes his hand. He puts it back on his thigh, heart thundering in his chest the whole time.

Peter lets out a low rumble from somewhere deep in his chest, contentment or desire, Stiles doesn’t know. The hand slides under the hem of the shirt, cupping Stiles’s ass, and Stiles's breath catches. “Are you trying to tell me something, husband?” Peter’s voice is husky, and he presses his face against the side of Stiles’s neck, inhaling deeply. “Oh, you _want,_ don’t you? I can smell it all over you.”

Partly it’s the need to know if it can be better than it was on their wedding night. Stiles never could stand not knowing things. His father always said his curiosity would get him in trouble, and maybe this is a terrible idea, but Stiles just can’t _not know._

But mainly, it’s the intimacy of the evening, the handfeeding and the coddling and the kindness Peter’s shown him.

He wants more. 

“I – Yes, Alpha." His voice drops to a whisper. "I want it all.”

The rumble in Peter’s chest deepens and the hand on his ass tightens for just a second. Peter’s voice is muffled where it’s pressed against Stiles’s throat when he says, “Well whatever my princeling wants, he shall have.”

This time, it’s definitely a term of affection.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I'm later than i wanted to be posting, because I got hit with an unexpected double shift, but hopefully this is worth it. (Its pure smut.)

It’s not perfect - it never is, after all.

But it’s as close as it can be, given that Stiles’s nerves are thrumming under his skin and Peter’s desperate to be inside him, even though he tries to hide it. Stiles can tell though, from the way Peter's eyes darken, the way his grip tightens on Stiles’s waist as he hoists him onto the bed. Peter spends what seems like eternity doing nothing but kissing his neck, leaving smudged bruises on the skin of his throat and laughing when Stiles protests that ‘People will _see,_ Peter!”

“Let them. Let them know you’re mine in every sense of the word.” And then Peter continues to lick and suck and lave, tongue hot against Stiles's skin and hands roaming under the shirt that Stiles is still wearing. Peter rubs the pad of his thumb across Stiles's nipples, teasing him with soft caresses. Stiles squirms at the unexpected jolt of pleasure. He’s never bothered paying attention to own chest – why would he? – and he’s been missing out, it seems. Before long he’s arching into Peter’s touch, whining for more. Peter lets out a breathy laugh, and one hand keeps worrying at Stiles’s chest while the other strays across his body, stroking up and down Stiles’s side, making him shiver, while Peter finally stops mouthing at his neck and bestows a wealth of kisses instead.

And _such_ kisses.

Deep and slow, tongue tracing the inside of Stiles’s mouth as if Peter would devour him, given the chance. It’s nothing like Stiles has ever experienced, and it awakens a need in him that he didn’t know was there. This isn’t curiosity on Stiles's part anymore. It’s pure lust, and Stiles gives in to it, opens his mouth wider and lets Peter in. After they’ve kissed for what seems like forever, Peter peels the shirt off over Stiles’s head leaving him naked, and takes the time to shuck off his own trousers before going back to exploring Stiles’s body.

Stiles doesn’t know how long Peter spends kissing him all over, petting his skin, exploring. Maybe minutes. Maybe years. Every touch lights a fire under his skin, and even before Peter goes anywhere near his cock he’s hard and leaking. Peter runs a single finger along the underside of his length, drawing a whimper from him. “Needy little thing,” Peter says, sounding delighted.

And then he proceeds to suck Stiles off.

It’s just as shocking and intense and _good_ as the first time he did it. Stiles tries his best to hold back, to make this last, but he can’t fight the wave of pleasure that comes thundering through him like a stampede, and his back arches as he fucks up into Peter’s mouth, the warmth and heat and suction irresistible and all-encompassing. He comes with a choked-off cry.

Peter nurses him through it and sucks him clean, every last drop. Stiles didn’t think he could be any more loose-limbed after soaking in the springs, but apparently, he was wrong. It’s like his bones have melted.

Peter rolls him over onto his front and traces a fingertip down the cleft of his ass, soft and slow, but it’s still enough to make Stiles’s heartbeat thunder in his chest, his breathing stutter, and his whole body tense, just for a second. Peter stills his hand, and murmurs, “Do you still want this? You can say no.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I want it. I’m just nervous.”

Peter’s hand moves from his ass to the back of his neck, a soft grip that’s soothing and grounding. “I know, lamb. But this won't be like last time. We have time, now. There's just us, and no need to rush. I’ll take it slow, and I’ll make it good. Trust me?”

Stiles gathers his nerve and gives a shaky nod. “I do trust you.” And he does, too. Peter's never lied to him yet.

Peter lays soft kisses down the column of his spine, and Stiles can feel the curve of his mouth as he smiles against Stiles’s skin. Stiles closes his eyes, takes deep, calming breaths, and tries not to think too hard. “That’s it, that’s my boy,” Peter murmurs approvingly, and Stiles relaxes a little more.

_They have time._

Peter trails fingertips softly over his ass, tutting over the bruise from where Stiles fell off his horse, kissing it better, massaging his lower back and thighs until Stiles is soft and pliant under his touch once again, and when Peter produces a vial of oil and starts to work it into the pucker of Stiles’ ass, Stiles barely twitches.

Peter hums quietly, tuneless little noises as his thumb works over the tiny furl, softening and loosening it. The first finger going in makes Stiles clench up momentarily, but it’s just the shock of the thing, not because there’s any pain. The second finger draws a gasp, but Peter soothes him, slows his movements, takes his time, until that, too, is slipping in and out easily. He takes his hand away and Stiles has a moment of panic where he thinks Peter’s going to fuck him and two fingers isn’t nearly enough, but instead strong hands pull his ass cheeks apart, and something wet and warm swipes across his hole. He lets out a yelp when he realizes that Peter’s - he’s _licking_ him there.

“Peter! That’s - it’s dirty!” he hisses, mortified. He tries to squirm away, but Peter has him pinned firmly.

“Shhh, lamb. You’ve spent an hour soaking in the springs. I don’t think you could get any cleaner. But I'll stop if you really want me to.“ And then Peter puts his mouth there _again_ , only this time he presses the tip of his tongue inside, wet and slippery, and it feels so good that Stiles forgets to object and instead he lets out a strangled sound that he’ll try and forget he made later. "Still want me to stop?" Peter asks, his tone smug.

Stiles shakes his head. "You - you can keep going."

Peter’s breath is hot against his hole as he huffs out a laugh and carries on licking and teasing and worming his tongue inside, as Stiles’s muscles soften and stretch under his tongue and Stiles tries not to burst into flames from embarrassment and pleasure mixed. He finds himself pressing back into Peter’s touch, his body greedy for more the longer it goes on. When Peter finally takes his mouth away, he slips three fingers in easily.

Stiles moans wantonly as Peter touches something inside that sends a jolt up his spine and straight to his cock, making it stir once again and causing Stiles to start humping against the mattress. Peter fingers him for long enough that Stiles is almost ready to come again by the time he pulls his hand away.

“Ready for me, lamb? Want me to fill you, make you scream my name?” Peter purrs in his ear, and Stiles’s cock throbs at the idea of it.

“Please,” he gasps out.

Peter lowers his body on top of Stiles’s, pressing him into the mattress, and when he eases the tip in it’s slow and gentle and nothing like a warlord at all. There’s a stretch and a fullness to it that has Stiles groaning, but it’s not from pain. Peter hitches his hips forward in tiny, barely-there strokes as he works himself inside, and Stiles hears Peter groan, deep and low in his ear. Finally, Peter’s all the way in, and Stiles lets out a shuddery breath. “Stiles?” Peter asks, breathless, and Stiles can sense all that controlled power, the way that Peter’s holding back.

“S’good. You can move,” Stiles grunts out, and wonders when he became the one in charge here.

Peter eases out oh-so-slowly, then rocks back in again, and it’s soft and gentle and, Stiles thinks, after the third or fourth time, not at all what he needs. So on the next gentle roll of Peter’s hips, Stiles deliberately presses back, taking him all inside as he moans out, “More.”

“More? Are you sure, lamb?”

Stiles knows just what to say. “Harder,” he says firmly. “I won’t break… _Alpha_.”

It turns out Peter wasn't lying when he warned Stiles what would happen if he used that word in the bedchamber.

Peter pulls out, but it’s only so he can drag Stiles up onto his knees, and press his chest to the mattress, making his back arch deep and low. “You’ll tell me if I need to stop,” Peter demands, and then he slams back in, hard. Stiles keens at the shock of it, but he doesn’t tell him to stop, doesn’t want him to.

Peter isn’t gentle, but he’s rough in all the right ways. Stiles pants and moans and babbles and pleads for more, comes again just from Peter’s cock pounding against that place inside him, screaming _“Alpha!”_ into the night, not caring who might hear him. Peter growls deep in his throat at that, and fucks a little harder, and Stiles _likes_ it.

When Peter comes, it’s with a howl that Stiles suspects is heard across the compound.

* * *

Stiles cries a little, after.

He can’t help it when a stray tear slips down his cheek, because this, this is how his first time should have been, and he can’t help feeling robbed. Peter sees, of course. “Stiles? Are you in pain?”

 _Not hurt_ , Stiles wants to say. _Angry._

But he doesn’t have words, so he just shakes his head. It doesn’t matter anyway. He knows now, how it can be. And that’s good enough. So he lets Peter fuss and pull him close and clean him with a damp cloth, lets himself be hushed and soothed and cossetted until he manages to speak. “It was too good,” is what comes out of his mouth, and Peter seems to understand, because the worry leaves his face and a soft smile replaces it.

“An improvement on _‘not so bad,’_ then?” he teases, petting gently at Stiles’s hair.

“Mmhm.” Stiles tilts his head up and gives Peter a soft kiss. “Thank you. For taking your time.”

Peter’s smile sharpens. “Oh, it was pure selfishness. I intend to bed you often, and I want you willing.”

Stiles snuggles up to the warm body. “Often is good,” he mumbles, as the events of the day catch up to him and sleep threatens to overtake him. His last thought before he drifts off is an echo of one from earlier, but this time it’s not quite so shocking. It might even be true.

Maybe they’ll be happy.


	12. Chapter 12

Stiles wakes alone.

Peter’s side of the bed is empty and cold, and Stiles is offended for the barest second until a hazy recollection surfaces of waking briefly, a hand ruffling his hair, and Peter’s whispered instructions to go back to sleep, followed by a kiss to the top of his head. His annoyance vanishes, and the memory makes him smile. The bright sunlight flooding the room tells him that he’s slept late. He rolls into a sitting position, wincing at the sting in his ass, but also relishing it.

Peter said he wants to do that often.

Stiles does, too. (Although may be not _too_ often, just while he gets used to it.)

He takes a moment to stretch and yawn, before it occurs to him that all his clothing is in his trunks. The trunks that have yet to be unpacked. He spends a moment pondering his options, before he spies a pile of folded clothing on the foot of the bed. When he unfolds it, he can tell it’s Peter’s. The shirt’s too broad in the shoulders, and he has to cinch the belt around his waist twice to pull it in far enough so the trousers don’t slide right off. But it’s also the first time he’s dressed himself in years, and it’s oddly liberating.

Stiles opens the bedroom door and hears voices, so he follows them down the hallway to the kitchen, where Peter appears to be holding court. He’s seated at the table, surrounded by half a dozen men and women, most of whom Stiles recognizes from the ride. Peter's issuing directives to them, brow furrowed in concentration. He glances up when Stiles enters the room and greets him with a small smile and a nod, but then one of the men asks a question and Peter goes back to his conversation.

Stiles lingers just inside the doorway, unsure what he’s meant to do now Should he go over to his husband, greet him with a kiss? Peter must catch his mood because he stands and walks over, leans in and scents at the crook of Stiles’s neck, runs a possessive thumb over the marks there, unseen by the others. Stiles finds it more comforting than he ever thought he would. “I trust you can entertain yourself today, find something to do?” Peter asks quietly.

 _Entertain himself how?_ Stiles wants to ask. _Do what?_ He knows nothing and nobody here. But he nods yes anyway, because the wolves at the table are watching them, and one thing Stiles has had drilled into him is never to show weakness or uncertainty.

And then Peter’s gone, striding out the front door with his followers in tow, and Stiles is left standing there. He’s not alone, though. There’s a woman in the kitchen who looks him up and down, hands on hips, appraising. “You’re the husband,” she states. It sounds like an accusation.

Stiles wishes in that moment that he was five years older and three inches taller, that he was wearing his cloak and circlet, that he had the nerve to point a finger and demand _“And who are you, to speak to me that way?”_

But he isn’t, and he doesn’t, so he just nods.

“Well, Prince from Beacon. Would you like breakfast?”

Stiles curls in on himself. “Yes please. And my name’s Stiles.”

He walks over to the table, a hitch in his step, and he’s sure he hears a snort behind him. The woman puts a plate in front of him. “It’s almost lunch, mind. You must have been kept up late last night.” This time there’s a definite snicker, and the implication is clear, but Stiles ignores it, concentrating on the food instead.

“Where’s Peter gone?” he asks when he’s cleared his plate.

The housekeeper shrugs. “It’s a big job, running a pack this size. He’ll likely be gone all day.” Stiles hears the unspoken _he doesn’t have time to look after you._

He stands, thanks the woman for lunch, and walks outside, careful not to limp.

He meanders around aimlessly for a while, following the sounds of activity down to the carts that are being unloaded from the trip. He sees his trunks set to one side, and wonders if he’ll get in trouble if he asks for them to be brought to the house. He’s still pondering it when there’s an elbow to his side. He turns to find Cora standing there, grinning. “What’s the matter, Stiles? All your things still packed away?” she asks, indicating his obviously ill-fitting attire.

“Um, yeah. I don't have anything clean. Do you think I can get my trunks taken to the house?” Cora’s at least friendly – he doesn’t think she’ll snap at him for asking. She nods, walks over, and as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, hoists one trunk onto one shoulder, drags another one behind her, and starts walking, while Stiles just stares. He’s shocked every time he’s reminded of how strong werewolves are. 

Cora tilts her head. “Coming, Uncle?” she asks with a smirk.

That pulls him up short. “I am, aren’t I?” he says with a grin, before scrambling to keep up, because Cora’s ten strides ahead of him and moving fast. They reach the house in short order and Cora drops the trunks in the bedroom. Stiles notices the way her nose twitches and her grin widens. The rooms reeks of sex even to his dull human senses, so he can only imagine what it’s like for her. He prays she won’t say anything, and for a wonder, she doesn’t. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s just wolf etiquette not to mention such things or if she’s doing him a kindness. He chooses to believe the latter. He opens the trunk and starts unpacking, and Cora gives him a nod before walking out.

It takes no time at all for her to deliver the other trunks, and then she leaves him to it. As she’s walking out, Stiles can’t help but ask. “If you see Peter, can you let him know…” he trails off. What exactly, is there to let him know? That Stiles has his luggage? That he’s feeling lost? That he’d like Peter to stop what he's doing and spend some time with him?

Cora seems to understand, though. “He’s been away for weeks, Stiles.There's a lot for him to catch up on. Don’t be surprised if he disappears for the next few days. You know how it is.”

Stiles does know how it is. He remembers his own father coming back from campaigns, remembers waiting in vain for him to remember that he had a son who missed him. This is like that. So he nods and keeps on with his unpacking, carves a space for himself in Peter’s drawers and Peter’s room and Peter’s life.

It’s just that the space doesn’t seem very big.

* * *

Once he’s unpacked, Stiles spends the day wandering the compound. There are a lot more werewolves than he expected – the one hundred warriors are just the start. They all have families, wives and husbands and girlfriends and parents and children, and by the time Stiles has walked around the entire area, it’s nearly evening. The sheer volume of people makes him feel small and unimportant, yet every eye seems to be on him.

He’s greeted with friendly nods, and there doesn’t seem to be any mockery behind the gestures, so he returns them. Nobody really stops to talk to him though, too busy with their own errands. There’s some kind of market going on, but it’s crowded and loud and Stiles doesn’t have any coins to spend anyway, so he ducks out of the way of the crowds and goes looking for the one place he’ll be comfortable.

He follows his nose, and ends up at the stables. There must be twenty horses in here, and the smell of hay and horse sweat and the fragrance of manure is soothing in its familiarity. He’s standing there enjoying the reminder of home when a hand taps his shoulder and he turns to find Braeden smiling at him. 

“Stiles! I was going to come and find you, but now you’re here. Perfect. I have a surprise for you.” Braeden leads him to a particular loose-box and opens the door to reveal a smallish roan filly. "Meet Honey." Stiles looks at the horse, and at Braeden, and raises an eyebrow in query. “I heard you can't ride, and we need to fix that. I thought I could teach you.”

And that, Stiles has to admit, is a good idea. It will give him something to do, a goal to pursue. And he'll be able to show Peter that he's trying to fit in. “I’d like that,” he agrees. “Are we allowed though? Don't we need the Stablemaster’s permission to take his horses?”

Braeden leans forward and smacks the back of his head in a gentle reprimand. “ _The Stablemaster_ is standing in front of you, and _she_ says it’s fine.”

Oh.

Werewolves really _do_ do things differently. He tries to imagine a lady of the court in charge of the stables, and he can’t. Braeden though? With her werewolf strength and speed, it seems only natural. “Thank you, Stablemaster,” he says, grinning. “When can we start?”

“Tomorrow. It’s too late today, and you’re probably still tender from your …ride yesterday,” she says with a wink. Stiles thinks of the way Peter howled when he came last night, and blushes to the tips of his ears.

Braeden laughs, and then he spends some time getting to know the horse. She’s a placid little thing, which is why Braeden chose her. “Honey is the calmest horse we have. She’ll be perfect for you. She doesn’t ‘ _not like’_ anyone,” she says, grinning.

It turns out she’s heard all about Stiles’s lack of riding ability from Derek. Stiles wonders if he’s all people are talking about right now. It certainly seems like it when he makes his way back through the settlement. He’s not blind, sees the stares and whispers, and even if they're fueled by simple curiosity ( and really, he knows it’s just that he’s the Alpha’s new husband), they still make him uncomfortable and he just wants to crawl under a rock somewhere. In the end he goes home and hides out in the bedchamber, waiting for Peter and avoiding the housekeeper.

When Peter comes home at the end of the day, Stiles has to resist the urge to climb into his lap and bury himself in the man’s chest at the relief of seeing him. Peter looks worn out, slumping into a chair fireside and pulling his boots off. “I’m never leaving for so long again,” he announces. “Or at least, next time we go to Beacon I’m leaving Derek in charge.” He glances over at Stiles. “Better learn to ride by then lamb, or I’ll leave you behind as well.”

There it is. Confirmation that Peter plans to let Stiles visit his father. He can’t help the broad smile that spreads across his face. “Really? I get to go back?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I really don’t know where you got this notion that I plan to keep you prisoner here. But you do need to learn to ride a horse properly.”

Stiles nods excitedly. “I already talked to Braeden. She’s going to teach me.” Peter makes an approving sound, and Stiles gets a warm glow at finally having done something right outside of the bedroom.

There’s a meal ready for them in the warming drawer, and they eat at the kitchen table, finding it easier and more comfortable that carrying everything to the dining room. Stiles finds he doesn’t miss formal dining, even if he does have to fill his own bowl and pour his own drink. By the time they finish their meal, Stiles is yawning, and Peter joins in. “It seems we’re both paying for staying up late,” Peter says with a smirk.

Stiles can’t stop the smile crawling onto his face. “It was worth it,” he admits.

Peter laughs, and when he throws his head back Stiles gets to feast his eyes on the thickness of his neck, the soft crinkles at the corners of his eyes, his brilliant teeth, the dip at the base of his throat.

_He wants to kiss that dip._

The thought sneaks up on him and he jolts upright, startled by his own desire. Peter’s looking at him keenly. “Stiles,” he says softly. “What were you thinking about just then?” He shuffles his chair closer and sniffs pointedly. “Because you smell _delicious._ ”

“I – your neck.” Stiles stammers, suddenly shy. “I wanted to kiss it,” he says in a rush, and waits for Peter to laugh at such a foolish notion.

He doesn’t, though. Instead, he tilts his head back in invitation. “Go ahead.”

Stiles leans in and places a soft kiss at the base of Peter’s neck, aware of what it means for a wolf to bare his throat like that. He can’t help the urge to inhale while he’s there, and his nostrils are filled with the smell of fresh sweat, leather, and something deeper – wolf, he guesses. A happy sound escapes him without his permission.

“You like that, lamb?” Stiles nods into the curve of Peter’s throat, and kisses the spot again, and feeling bold, suckles lightly. He can feel Peter's pulse thrumming under the surface of the skin. Peter groans before gently tangling his fingers into Stiles’s hair and easing him back until he can see Stiles’s face. “Maybe you have a little more wolf in you than I thought.”

“Well I don’t have _any_ wolf in me right now, _Alpha,_ ” Stiles teases. Peter growls low in his throat, and it suddenly occurs to Stiles that maybe he shouldn’t taunt the man with teeth and claws.

But Peter looks positively delighted despite the growl, and Stiles quickly realizes it wasn't a sound of displeasure - quite the opposite, in fact. Stiles has a second to be pleased with himself before Peter’s grabbing him out of his chair, throwing him over his shoulder and carrying him to the bedroom. Stiles squawks and flails, but Peter gives his backside a firm slap. “ _No wolf in you_ indeed. We’ll soon fix _that.”_

* * *

When Braeden arrives at his door the next morning, Stiles blushes when he postpones the riding lessons for another day, telling her he's still sore from his ride. She doesn't bother to hide her smirk.

* * *

The full moon’s just two nights later, and it’s far less frightening than Stiles thought it would be. Part of him was secretly terrified that Peter would chase him naked through the woods, but all that happens is the wolves all gather in the communal area to feast and mingle at sundown, and then Peter turns into an actual giant silver wolf before howling and leading them on a run. It's impressive, intimidating and fascinating all at once, watching as the pack transforms, but Stiles finds he isn't actually _afraid_.

The wolves run, and Stiles lays in bed and listens to the baying, the yips and howls echoing through the night, and in the morning a filthy, grinning, naked Peter wakes him by licking his throat and working both their cocks in his hand until they spill, before rolling over and slumping onto his side of the bed, falling asleep just as he is, with a smile on his face.

Stiles spends a long time just watching Peter sleep, carefully picking leaves out of his long locks and grinning at the sight of the big tough Alpha with dirt smudged on the tip of his nose, as if he’s been snuffling round the base of a tree like an excited pup.

Perhaps he has.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late folks, my laptop had to do the Dreaded Updates, and it took foreeeeever....  
> Just a heads up, we're nearing the end of what I have written, so updates might slow down a little, but also we're not far from the finish line - three, maybe four more chapters? (I mean maybe five, I'm pretty terrible at guessing.)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

As the days pass, Stiles tries to make sense of his new life, his new husband.

It’s not always easy. 

At night, when it’s just them, Peter’s softer somehow, affectionate, wants to sleep wrapped around him and scent him, and Stiles dares to think maybe they’ll even get along.

By day though? Peter’s distant - always busy, always on the move, leaving Stiles to his own devices. After that first morning, it isn’t uncommon for Stiles to wake alone, and to find that Peter’s already left for the day. He thinks about asking Peter if he’ll at least wake him before he leaves, but what would be the point? It’s not like Stiles has anything to get up for anyway. So he rises alone, makes stilted conversation with the housekeeper, and tries to stay out from under her feet.

Stiles fills his days learning to keep his seat on the filly and trying to make himself useful. But it’s hard to feel needed when everyone is five times stronger and faster than he is, and knows far more than he does.

He helps out in the stables, and tries not to be disheartened by how little he does in comparison to Braeden and her offsider. He might not have a werewolf’s strength or speed, but he’s welcome there, and at least he’s doing _something_.

The housekeeper gives him a disbelieving look the one time he offers his services, but she grudgingly agrees to let him sweep. She takes the broom off him after ten minutes, saying that all he’s doing is stirring up the dirt, and perhaps it isn’t fitting for the Alpha’s mate to be doing something so menial. Stiles retreats to the hot springs in a sulk, because surely he can’t get _that_ wrong. He wonders to himself – what exactly _is_ the Alpha mate meant to do?

At least he’s become used to the casual nudity that seems to be the norm for werewolves. It takes him a week of cold, wet underthings and dithering, but finally he gathers his courage and strips bare at the springs. Nobody comments the first time he slips into the water in nothing but his skin, and after that it becomes easier. He’s started sleeping naked as well, but that’s mainly because Peter managed to tear three of his nightshirts in his haste to get him out of them. Peter doesn't even _pretend_ that he's sorry when he does it, and Stiles only has one left. (He doesn’t think that’s going to last long either.) Peter’s warm enough to compensate anyway, and Stiles has come to crave the skin to skin contact.

They haven’t had what Stiles thinks of as ‘real sex’ again. After that last time, when Stiles had walked with a visible limp the next morning and cancelled his riding lesson, Peter had suggested that they limit themselves while Stiles was having riding lessons, for the sake of his comfort. Stiles, desperate to be allowed to join Peter for the trip to Beacon when the time came, agreed.

It doesn’t matter. They gain their pleasure in other ways - rutting against each other, using their hands.

Sometimes, their mouths.

That’s one thing that Stiles _is_ good at. He’d been hesitant at first, but Peter had guided him through it that first time with soft words and praise, a careful hand tangled in his hair, holding him just so, and Stiles had glanced up and seen the expression of bliss on Peter’s face, the closed eyes, the flared nostrils, the mouth hanging open, and thought _I did that._ It had made him feel…powerful.

And he’d _liked_ that heaviness on his tongue, the thickness in his throat, the silky flesh rubbing his lips. It had taken barely any time before Peter had pulled out and spilled his seed over Stiles’s face, and when Stiles had blinked up at him through sticky lashes and murmured, “Can we do that again?” Peter’s smile had been all teeth and promise.

At night, when they’re laying abed together sleepy and relaxed, Stiles feels like he can ask questions, and Peter won’t answer harshly. But those moments never last long enough, sleep overtaking them, and the next morning it’s back to Peter being the Alpha and Stiles being nothing more than his bedwarmer, or so it seems to him. His father’s admonition to do what he’s told rings in the back of his mind, and he really does do his best to be agreeable. It’s exhausting, and Peter doesn’t even seem to appreciate it.

At least his riding’s improving. Braeden’s a hard taskmaster, accepting no excuses, teaching him to use his legs and his posture to steer rather than the reins, making him repeat the same thing over and over until he finally _gets_ it.

Three weeks after he starts lessons, the day finally comes where she declares him ready, and takes him out riding for hours _._ They make it halfway to the border of the kingdom before she wheels around and heads back - no breaks, no rest stops, no allowance for weak human muscles and tender human backsides made. When Stiles whines about it, she fixes him with a look. “Either toughen up, or take the bite like I did.”

Stiles slows his horse a little and tilts his head. “You’re not a born wolf?”

She pulls on the reins, halting her mount. “No. I took the bite when I knew Derek and I wanted to be together. He asked if I wanted it, and I said yes.”

Stiles is quiet for the rest of the ride. Peter’s never offered _him_ the bite, never even mentioned it. Maybe he’s not good enough. If Braeden notices, she doesn’t say anything. 

When they get back to the stables, it’s to find Peter pacing back and forth with a scowl on his face. “Where have you been?” he demands. “I thought you’d taken another fall.”

Stiles is taken aback. “We were riding. I thought you wanted me to learn.”

Peter flaps his hand in annoyance. “What I _want_ , is a husband who has manners enough to tell me when he’ll be gone all day.”

Stiles is tired, and he’s hungry, and his ass hurts, and now Peter’s ruined this for him, spoiled his one achievement with his unreasonable fit of pique.

He snaps.

“Well if my _husband_ wasn’t out of bed at the crack of dawn doing god knows what, if he took the time to speak to me, maybe I could have told him,” he snarls, all manners gone. “But you’re always gone, and you’re impossible to find, and I’m left to fill my days as best I can! So, _excuse_ me for not tracking you down to tell you that I’m doing what you asked me to, learning to ride!”

Peter’s eyes widen, and Stiles wonders if he’s overstepped. But then Peter’s hands are at his waist, dragging him down off his mount and pulling him close, holding him tight and burying his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck, breathing heavily. “Finally,” he huffs. “I knew you had a spine in there somewhere.”

Stiles blinks. “I’m not in trouble?”

Peter shoves Stiles up against the wall of the stables and sucks a mark into his collarbone, and Stiles gasps at the scrape of teeth against his flesh. “For showing some spirit?” Peter mumbles into his skin, before lifting his head. “I married _you,_ with all your mouthiness and attitude Stiles, not some timid little milksop. But you were so meek and mild I was starting to worry I’d broken you.”

“My – my father said to do what I was told and hold my tongue. He told me to only say _Yes Alpha,_ ” Stiles confesses. “I think he was worried you’d change your mind about marrying me.”

Peter growls out, “Your father’s an idiot, and he underestimated both of us. I _like_ that you have some fire in your belly."

Stiles would answer, but then Peter’s kissing him, pressing his tongue against the seam of Stiles’s lips, demanding entry. Peter’s hands are cradling his face holding him there, and Stiles is helpless to resist, doesn’t even try.

He lets his eyes flutter closed, but not before he sees Braeden walking away holding both sets of reins. He thinks dimly that he should be taking care of his mount, but the thought is fleeting, easily chased away by the scrape of stubble against his skin, warm palms on his jawline, and the wall of muscle holding him in place.

He’s hard in his trousers when Peter pulls away abruptly, and he can’t help whimpering. Peter groans, but shakes his head. “As much as I want you, best stop now before I can’t. Braeden will have my head if I frighten her horses.” He takes another step back, hands splayed out as if to stop himself touching Stiles again, but Stiles can see the bulge in his trousers.

Peter lets out a long breath. “I was looking for you to tell you there’s a messenger from Beacon. The talks have been delayed, your father wants to wait till he’s fully recovered. Doesn’t want to bargain from his sickbed.” With that, he turns on his heel and strides away. As he departs, he calls back over his shoulder, “Don’t hide yourself from me, Stiles. It doesn’t please me,” and Stiles is left standing there, aroused and bewildered, but quietly pleased.

* * *

Peter _wants_ Stiles to show some spirit.

He said so.

Stiles reminds himself of that as he gathers his nerve and over dinner asks, “Peter? When the rider goes back to Beacon, can I go with them and see my dad?”

“Absolutely not. I forbid it.” 

Stiles wasn’t expecting Peter’s reply to be so vehement, and he has to fight the urge to bow his head and fold his hands in his lap like a child. He tries again. “I’d like to check on him. If he’s postponing the talks maybe he’s not doing so well.”

Peter shakes his head and spits out a rabbit bone. “The rider said he’s healing, just wants extra time. You don’t need to go.”

Stiles bristles at that. “Maybe I _want_ to go. Maybe I’m sick of rattling around the place with nothing to do. And surely my riding’s good enough.”

Peter pushes his bowl away with a scoff. “You think because you’ve ridden half a day without killing yourself you’re fit to ride to Beacon? Tell me, who’s going to light your fires at night, feed you, make sure you don’t end up in a ditch somewhere?”

“I’d have company, the messenger – “

“And on the way back?” Peter cuts in. “Let me guess. They’ll have to find someone to hold your hand for the ride.”

“I can go alone. I’m not completely useless!”

“Not useless, no. But you are important. You’re the crown prince of Beacon, married to the Hale Alpha, and there’s a treaty based on our union. If anyone were to capture you, they’d control both kingdoms, unless we decided to go into battle or leave you to perish. And I don’t have it in me for another battle right now. So you’ll stay here, where I know you’re safe.”

And there it is.

Stiles is a bargaining chip.

He’d let himself forget, for a while, that his father traded him away for claws and fangs and to win a war. But Peter hasn’t forgotten. Stiles is his pawn, his bedwarmer, his plaything. Only good to spread his legs, or take a cock down his throat.

He pushes his chair away from the table, the legs screeching against the floorboards, and storms off to the bedroom, slamming the door.

Peter doesn’t follow.

* * *

When Peter finally comes to bed later, Stiles is burrowed under the blankets, wrapped in a nightshirt and hugging his knees to his chest. He’s not asleep, can’t stop his brain replaying their fight, the way Peter had been so dismissive, so flippant.

Stiles has run a dozen different conversations through his mind, readying himself for the inevitable argument, prepared to plead his case, but Peter slides into the bed next to him and makes no move to approach, and somehow that’s even worse. He lies still and quiet and worried, too afraid to move for long minutes, until finally there’s a huff and a grumbled “Gods’ sake,” and then Peter’s tugging at his shoulder, turning Stiles to face him.

Stiles bites his lip and prepares to be scolded, but Peter just lets out a heavy sigh. “You think I only value you for the leverage you bring,” he states.

Stiles gives a tiny nod.

Peter groans in frustration. “Stiles, I want to keep you safe, that’s all. Politics aside, your father would have my hide. I promised him I’d protect you.”

Stiles raises his head a scant inch. “You did?”

Peter puts a hand under Stiles’s chin and tilts it up. “Of course. Your father cares for you deeply. Which is why, if I sent you to him with nothing more than a messenger for protection, and for no good reason to boot, he’d probably drag his stubborn, healing carcass into a saddle and ride here to finish me off himself.”

The thought makes Stiles snort. “He would, too. He has no sense of self preservation.”

Peter fixes him with a pointed look.

Oh.

“Like father, like son?” Stiles offers weakly.

That draws a tight smile out of his husband, and some of the sting of their argument drains away. Stiles still isn’t happy at being denied, but Peter has a point. If something happens to him, the effects are far reaching. He’s not sure if that makes him powerful or vulnerable. He thinks of a chess board, of the king. The most important piece, with the least freedom to move.

Peter strokes his thumb down Stiles’s jaw, soft and tender. “It’s not only your father who’d be upset if something happened,” he says quietly. It’s the closest to an admission of fondness he’s ever made.

Stiles shuffles himself over so they’re closer, runs his fingers through the hair on Peter’s chest. “I guess. It was a stupid idea. I didn’t think it though.”

“When we ride for the treaty, I promise I’ll take you,” Peter murmurs.

“Promise - promise?” Stiles knows he’s pushing, but he needs the reassurance.

Peter hums softly. “Alpha promise.”

An Alpha promise. Unbreakable. Stiles sighs in relief and turns his head so he can kiss the tips of Peter’s fingers. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Peter makes a pleased rumble and extends his other arm to drape over Stiles’s body. “Am I forgiven then, for wanting you safe?”

Stiles huffs out a dramatic sigh. “You’re forgiven. Not wanting me to fall in a ditch isn’t such a terrible crime.”

Peter laughs softly, and the tension in the room eases. “Tell me lamb, are you riding tomorrow?” he asks, out of the blue.

“Not tomorrow, Braeden said I could have a few days break after today. Why?”

Even in the darkness, Stiles can see Peter’s teeth gleaming as he grins. “In that case, how would you feel about a riding lesson of our own?”

“What do you - oh!” Peter rolls onto his back and lifts Stiles on top so that he’s straddling him.

“Show me what you’ve learnt, lamb. Let me see if you can keep your seat.” Stiles hears the laughter in Peter’s voice. His hand ghosts over Stiles’s cock through the fabric of his nightgown, he grinds his erection against Stiles’s ass, and Stiles gets it. He pictures himself sinking down slowly, Peter laid out beneath him, and he _wants._

This time, it’s Stiles who tears the nightshirt.

* * *


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting early because I'm going out drinking. Which means tomorrow I'll probably post late, because, y'know...drinking.
> 
> Also - Pssst - more art! By the fabulous [Fearful_little_thing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fearful_little_thing/)  
> It's our lamb this time, on his wedding day. Doesn't he look gorgeously terrified?

* * *

Weeks pass, and Stiles learns to manage his expectations.

He learns not to expect sweet words and reassurances from his husband unless they’re between the sheets – Stiles surmises it’s simply not how he’s built. But Peter shows his protective nature in other ways. When he hears Stiles ask the housekeeper something innocuous and she snaps out a rude response, he promptly offers to sack her. It makes Stiles feel warm inside, but he also tells Peter he can handle his own battles.

And he does, too. With the assurance that Peter's with him in this, the next time she makes some snide comment about the amount of laundry since Stiles came into the house, he pulls himself up to his full height, draws on every bit of royal condescension he’s observed over the years, and coldly states, “If the workload’s too much for you, perhaps _my husband_ _and I_ need to find a replacement.” He fixes the woman with a steely gaze that she can’t quite meet.

She mumbles out an insincere apology, and is suspiciously quiet for the rest of the morning. When Peter comes back to the house for his midday meal, the woman pulls him aside into the kitchen, and when Peter emerges he's carrying the lunch tray and wearing an amused expression. “Apparently we need to find a new housekeeper. You’ve upset this one.”

Stiles bites his lip, but Peter just grins broadly. “I knew you were a terror at heart.”

“She commented on the amount of bedding she has to wash,” Stiles says, blushing slightly. “I told her if it was too much maybe we should get a replacement. Sorry if I crossed a line.”

Peter regards him keenly. “Stiles, you're my husband, and you should be treated with respect. You were right to do what you did. If she can't take being put in her place, then you're right and she should move on.”

Stiles sits up a little straighter at that, and counts it a victory.

* * *

Stiles starts to get acquainted with the wolves, to remember names, figure out who does what. The nods he gets walking through the settlement turn into halting conversations and smiles.

He learns that Derek is quiet, but kinder than his appearance would indicate, and devoted to his wife. He gets to know the names of what he thinks of as Peter's henchmen, and they start to greet him with a smile instead of ignoring him, and he no longer feels quite so invisible.

He discovers firsthand that the stable hand, Liam, is given to outbursts of temper that he can’t control. It shocks him the first time the boy drops his fangs and roars as he starts clawing at the tackle that he can’t seem to untie, but then Peter appears, seemingly from nowhere, and pins Liam against a wall, flashing his eyes at him and holding him there while ordering him to _control himself_.

Liam’s fangs recede, and Peter places a hand on the back of his neck, muttering into his ear until finally the boy bows his head and takes a shaky breath. It’s a strangely intimate moment, and Stiles would almost be jealous, except the next thing Peter does is walk over to Stiles and cup his face in his hands, asking, “Did he hurt you?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Never even looked at me. Although that bridle…” He indicates the tangled snarl of leather that Liam’s clawed apart in frustration.

Peter picks it up and heaves a sigh. “Come on, you.” He drops the bridle and grips Liam by the scruff of the neck. “We’re going to work on your temper.” And he steers the embarrassed boy out of the stables to god knows where.

Braeden watches them go. “Liam’s only a baby wolf, bitten not six months ago to save him from an illness, but he struggles,” she says, in answer to Stiles’s unspoken question. “Peter will help him find his anchor, teach him to focus.”

“Does Peter bite just anyone?” he wonders aloud.

“The bite is a gift. Sometimes people ask for it. Sometimes he says no, if he doesn’t think it’s a genuine request, but usually Peter's fair about it.” Braeden expertly changes the subject, passing Stiles a shovel with a grin . “Now I have no Liam, so you’ll have to clean out Honey’s stall yourself.”

As Stiles begins to scrape the muck out he mutters under his breath about how he’s _royalty,_ thank you, but they both know he doesn’t mean it.

* * *

Stiles’s riding lessons are going well - both kinds. (The housekeeper may have had a point about the laundry.)

The only thing that keeps him from falling asleep at night after they’ve taken their pleasure is wondering why, exactly, Peter hasn’t offered him the bite.

Maybe he’s waiting till after the treaty, Stiles tells himself. Maybe he’s waiting to give Stiles more time to settle in, find his place in the pack. Sometimes though, he wonders if Peter finds him wanting, unworthy. He’s worrying at it one morning, tiny streaks of daylight barely creeping in, when Peter pokes an elbow into his side.

“Out with it.”

“I wasn’t-“

Peter doesn’t even open his eyes. “Stiles, I can practically hear you working yourself into a lather, and it’s too early. So just tell me.”

“It’s – why haven’t you bitten me?”

Peters eyes open, and he sighs and stares at the ceiling with an arm behind his head for a long time, before finally saying, “It wasn’t a condition of the treaty.”

Which is a nothing answer if ever Stiles heard one. “I know, but I thought at least you’d ask me.”

Stiles could swear he feels Peter’s whole body stiffen at that. “Are you asking me for the bite, Stiles?” he says, and there’s something strangely formal in his tone.

Stiles considers. Is he? He remembers what Braeden told him – that sometimes Peter turns down the request – before finally shaking his head. “No.”

“If you’re not asking, there’s nothing to discuss,” Peter says tersely, and rolls over. There’s something amiss about his response, but the tense set of Peter’s shoulders tells Stiles that there’ll be no more talking about this, and he knows enough by now to leave it alone.

It plays on his mind, though.

He can’t help but think maybe he’d fit in better if he was wolf. He watches the rest of the pack, the way they scent each other, read unspoken cues, are comfortable in their skins.

“Was it worth it?” he asks Braeden one day.

She doesn’t have to ask what he means. “It was hard at first, but I don’t regret it.” She eyes him critically. “Stiles, do you _want_ the bite? Or do you just want the offer of it?”

Stiles sighs and drops his reins, letting his horse graze. “I’d like to at least be asked.”

Braeden looks at Stiles with something like pity. “You could always ask him for it.”

Stiles shakes his head. “He goes all peculiar and tense if I even mention it. I think – I think maybe I’m not good enough.” It’s the first time he’s voiced his fears aloud.

“Or maybe he’s being cautious. If it doesn’t take, the bite could kill you.”

“What? Nobody told me that.”

She nods. “It's rare, but it can happen. That’s why it’s not something to be rushed.” She moves closer, snagged the dropped reins, and tosses them at him. “Peter’s a good Alpha, Stiles. He's sure to have his reasons."

“I guess.” Stiles urges his horse into a trot in an effort to end the conversation. He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, not when he’s almost certain that Peter hasn't asked is simply because Stiles has nothing to offer, doesn’t deserve the bite.

* * *

Stiles is _bored._

He doesn’t get to spar or train like he did at home – he tried it exactly once, got put on his ass with a foot to the chest, and had to listen to Peter roar and snarl like a wild man, berating him and his opponent for a full ten minutes about how humans are _breakable,_ what were they _thinking,_ threatening the Alpha mate. Stiles had tried to explain it was his idea, but Peter was having none of it. _“Home,”_ he’d ordered, pointing, and Stiles had slunk off like a kicked dog, holding his ribs.

When Peter came home shortly afterwards, he’d given Stiles _another_ lecture about how foolhardy sparring with wolves was while he drained his pain and wrapped his ribs and somehow managed to fuss like a mother hen while still being completely terrifying.

Stiles hadn’t gone back to the training yards after that.

And there are only so many times Stiles can walk around the compound, only so much time he can spend at the stables. He’s spent so many hours in the springs he thinks his fingers are permanently wrinkled.

He’d attempted to step up and help now that they have no housekeeper, but after his first burnt offering Peter had informed him that their meals would be getting provided by the pack and someone would come in a twice a week to tidy while he arranged a replacement. Stiles had to admit, he was relieved – his cooking really is terrible - but it still leaves him nothing to do.

Riding’s well and good, but it only fills up part of his day. Peter hasn’t given any indication that he wants or needs Stiles’s input into running the pack, saying there’s plenty of time for him to learn. Stiles wonder how he's meant to learn if he never gets told anything.

Stiles sometimes feels like the biggest contribution he makes is collecting the eggs from the henhouse. Even the _chickens_ are more useful that he is, he thinks dejectedly as he places the basket of eggs on the counter of the communal kitchen.

Braeden’s busy for the rest of the week, had told him with a wink and a smile that she and Derek were taking a few days, and Stiles knows _exactly_ what that means. He wonders if he can convince Peter to take even one day some time, spend a few hours together that aren’t tacked onto the end of the day. He doubts it, somehow.

Peter doesn’t have time to waste like that.

Peter still starts each day early, and Stiles often doesn’t see him until he rolls in the door for dinner, kicking off his boots and slumping in front of the fire. And Stiles knows he’s busy the whole time, has seen how hard he works. He just wishes there was something he could do to help, some job that Peter doesn't have time for but that he can't make a mess of.

A thought strikes him.

Maybe there is something.

When he’d first moved in, Peter had shown him through the house. The house is far too big for two, built to house a larger family. Peter had all but ignored one of the rooms, and when Stiles had peered inside to find it full of boxes and dusty furniture, Peter had said, “It needs to be sorted one day,” and pulled the door shut firmly behind him.

It occurs to Stiles now that it might be one of those things that Peter simply can’t get to, that maybe he’ll appreciate it if Stiles at least starts to sort through the contents. It’s not like there’s any heavy lifting involved, and Peter won’t be home for the rest of the day. He can probably get it finished.

Stiles is home alone, so there’s nobody to stop him as he steps into the room. It’s musty, and he opens a window before he does anything else. He starts with the boxes, opening them one by one. The first box holds clothing and underwear, all jumbled together in an unholy mess, as if someone shoved them in there in a rush. The next few boxes are more of the same, a jumble of random clothing. Stiles wonders why the hell Peter’s even keeping old underclothes.

He spreads the contents on the bed that’s in the room, and folds them carefully, making a satisfied noise when he manages to compact three boxes down into one. He repeats the process several times, and the stack of boxes slowly dwindles. 

It only occurs to him that these aren’t Peter’s clothes when he’s near the end of the stack. He wonders idly if they belonged to the previous Alpha – he knows the house passes down to whoever holds the position, so it makes sense. There’s a large oval mirror propped in the corner, and Stiles catches sight of himself, dust smeared on one cheek. The sight makes him smile, because he’s doing something _useful_ for once, the evidence written on his skin. He hasn’t seen himself in a mirror for over a month, and he takes a moment to note that his hair is longer, his skin has a golden tan, and his cheekbones have sharpened. He looks older, less of a child.

He likes it.

He steps closer to wipe the surface of the mirror, and notes that the decorative carvings in the wooden frame are incomplete. Someone’s gone just over two thirds of the way round, working an intricate scrolled pattern into the wood, and then they’ve stopped.

When Stiles examines it more closely, it looks like the marks have been made by a claw. He smiles to himself. Peter, then. A project he’s abandoned, or simply forgotten. Stiles wipes it down. The timber itself is a rich cherry, and it’s a shame it’s been forgotten, left to gather dust. 

It occurs him that their bedroom doesn’t have a mirror.

He goes to check, and can see exactly where this would fit. There’s even a nail already in the wall, as if someone meant to hang it once. It takes some effort to drag it through to the bedchamber, the timber dense and weighty, but he manages it, resting it against the wall while he catches his breath and tries to imagine how it will look. Peter might not care how he looks in the morning, but now at least Stiles will be able to tame his hair somewhat.

He balances on a stool to get the height he needs and he’s just lifting it into place, lining up the hook, when there’s a growl from behind him.

Stiles startles, slips, and falls.

The glass shatters.

Peter _roars._


	15. Chapter 15

Stiles looks up from where he’s flat on his back, broken glass littered around him, and his heartbeat races.

Peter’s shifted, face ridged, fangs and claws out, eyes red. _“Where did you get that?”_ he demands, and Stiles can barely answer from sheer fright. 

“I - I was cleaning up the end room, and I found it,” he stammers out. Stiles shuffles so his back’s against the wall, heedless of the glass. “I wanted to help, and you said it needed to be sorted, so I thought…”

Peter steps over him to pick up the frame. He stares at it for a long moment before hurling it violently into the opposite wall, causing the rest of the glass to splinter and the frame to crack. _“You don’t touch his things!”_ he thunders.

“Whose things?” Stiles can’t help but ask.

“Michael’s! You had no right to be in there!” Peter’s claws are out, his chest heaving, his expression one of sheer heartbreak, and Stiles feels like he’s been slapped.

_Michael._

Peter’s dead partner, the one Kate killed, a man that Peter still cares about so deeply he has all his possessions.

Stiles feels sick to his stomach. It hits him then that Peter will never truly care for him. Not when he’s still in love with a dead man. And just like that, all his uncertainty and frustration comes pouring out of him like a flood.

He bites back.

“I’ll never be enough for you, will I? I’ll never be _him._ I know you only married me to spite Kate – I’m not even good enough for the bite. Why not shove me in that room with the rest of your useless, broken things? I’m obviously not who you want!” He scrambles up from the floor, suddenly needing to be away from Peter - far away. “I’m going home to Beacon. You can keep your damned alliance, but I won’t stay here and be – be – _tolerated!_ ”

He pushes past Peter and slams out the door, tears welling. His eyes light on Peter’s great black demon of a horse, and he doesn’t think twice before scrambling onto its back and urging it into a gallop. He can hear Peter calling him, but he ignores it, riding across the settlement at speed. He clings to the reins, grips on tightly with his knees, and aims for the path leading through the forest that he knows will take him home.

* * *

Peter’s horse is nothing like the placid little thing Stiles has been riding – this is a warhorse, through and through. It thunders along at a full gallop regardless of Stiles’s attempts to slow it down. He barely manages to cling to the saddle as the beast forges ahead, and it occurs to Stiles that he’s made a grave mistake. He’s not going back though, can’t face the idea. _Peter’s probably more worried about his horse than me anyway_ , he thinks meanly.

He covers a lot of ground far more quickly than he’s used to, and the horse is following its own path. Stiles doesn’t even know if he’s heading back to Beacon or not, but it’s not like he has any control anyway, and he’s too angry to really care, more intent on putting distance between himself and the source of his hurt. He doesn’t hear anyone riding after him, and that tells him all he needs to know. He’s not wanted, not really. 

His legs are starting to cramp up from the unexpected girth of the horse, far wider than he’s used to, and he tries to move around in the saddle, but he inadvertently spurs the horse on faster. He gets jogged around painfully and calls the beast all the names under the sun, while knowing in his heart it’s not the really the horse he's calling _a selfish son of a whore._

They come around a curve in the path and Stiles barely keeps his seat as they swing wide. His anger gives way to fear as it hits him just how out of control he is. He squeezes with his knees in an attempt to get the horse to slow, but it has no effect at all. Stiles is panicking now, and his eyes widen when he sees the stream up ahead. It’s too wide for them to jump, and he yanks on the reins desperately. The horse reacts by rearing up on its back legs, and Stiles flies through the air with no warning.

He’s not expecting the agonizing stab of pain in his side as he lands on something sharp, screams with it. What ever he hit is impaling him, sharp and unforgiving, and he can’t move. He sneaks a hand around and feels what might be a branch sticking into his side. His hand comes away bloody, and Stiles fights the urge to be sick at the sight.

He tries to take shallow breaths but each one is more painful than the last, and tears threaten. He feels fainter by the second, and he barely has time to think that Peter was right, he’s going to die alone in a ditch, before black spots dance before his eyes, the pain overwhelms him, and then there’s nothing.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I got up to sixty-five outraged comments this morning screaming at me for leaving you where I did. It was AWESOME.
> 
> You guys are pretty salty on Peter right now, huh?
> 
> Am I sorry I made you suffer? No.  
> Am I going to make you wait for the next chapter? Also no.

Peter stares at the door after Stiles storms out, at a loss. He’s too stunned to follow him.

When Peter saw that mirror, the one he was carving for Michael and never finished but that he couldn’t bring himself to throw away, it had caused all the painful memories to come flooding back just for a moment, and Peter had snapped.

But when Peter looks at the cracked frame and shattered glass now, he damns himself for a fool. Because it’s not Michael he’s thinking of, but Stiles.

Stiles, color high in his cheeks, reeking of misery and rejection as he backed against the wall and yelled about being useless and broken and unwanted. Stiles, gorgeous in his anger, unaware of exactly how much Peter cares for him, how he’s wormed his way into Peter’s affections with his bright smile and sharp mind and lithe, willing body.

Peter’s been an ass.

Stiles didn’t know any better, was only trying to be useful, and Peter’s aware it’s been difficult for him, catches the traces of discontent and sadness that waft off his lamb, but he’d thought they were doing better, that Stiles was settling in. Peter’s been deliberately holding off giving Stiles any responsibilities, not wanting to overwhelm him, and if he’s honest, he hasn’t had the time to teach him as he should- but he also wasn’t willing to let anyone else get too close to his boy.

Peter’s wolf doesn’t like to share.

Once Boyd was back to shoulder his share of the load though, Peter had every intention of taking the time to teach Stiles how a pack worked, so they could rule in tandem, as an Alpha and his mate should. Except he might not get the chance now.

Because Stiles is gone.

Peter hears him ride off, rushes to the door and calls after him, but Stiles doesn’t stop. Peter supposes he didn’t really expect him to. 

He curses John under his breath. Peter knows half the reason Stiles thinks he’s not good enough is because Peter hasn’t offered the bite, but the one thing John had been adamant about was that. “I want an Alpha’s promise that you’ll never offer Stiles the bite, and that you won’t turn my boy unless he comes to you and asks, and that you won’t tell him about the promise,” he’d said. “That’s my condition.”

Peter had swallowed down the urge to snap that he wasn’t a rabid dog who bit anything that passed, and given his word. He’d wanted the boy desperately, even then, and not just to keep him from Kate.

He hadn’t been lying when he said he liked Stiles. He’d been entranced by his pale skin and long limbs, and for the first time in a long time, he’d felt a flutter of something that might be more than just the base need to rut against another body. Stiles intrigued him, with his too-loud laugh and his mischievous smirk and the way he teased the pretty stable boy. Stiles was an innocent to be sure, and oh so young, (too young, probably) but something about him made Peter feel _alive._

Peter had watched him, seen how he was far too familiar with the servants, how he befriended the McCall boy despite his breathing condition, seemingly unbothered by social constraints, and thought to himself _That boy was made to be a wolf._

Of course Stiles had been terrified of him at first, and the bedding had been a nightmare, but Peter had done his best to reassure Stiles. But he’d been unsure what to say, not used to having to use his words, too accustomed to his pack being able to read him. He was out of practice, hid his own uncertainty under teasing and gentle mockery, and now he looks back, it strikes him that Stiles probably thought him unfeeling.

Once they arrived home and Stiles had finally shed his obedient persona, Peter had been optimistic. He’d been so pleased the day Stiles shouted at him, because it meant the boy was getting comfortable. And the day he threatened to sack the housekeeper was a high point - Peter had never been prouder of his husband, seeing his royal upbringing come to the fore. It had confirmed that Stiles had all the makings of a leader.

Peter had honestly thought the boy might ask for the bite. He’d instructed Braeden to subtly bring it up, encourage Stiles to request Peter turn him, had even asked Stiles flat out if he _was_ asking, but Stiles hadn’t given him an answer he could work with, and John had been clear.

And the Alpha promise can't be broken.

Peter paces the floor, heedless of the glass crunching under his boots. He debates letting Stiles ride his temper out, but in the end the protective instinct is too strong. He’ll find him, Peter tells himself, just to make sure he’s safe. And then, if Stiles really wants to leave he’ll let him, although it will break his heart to do so.

He slams out the door and over to the stables, hand out even as he speaks. “Derek’s mount. Now.” The horse is brother to his own, and Peter’s ridden it enough to know it will serve his purpose.

Something in Peter’s face makes Liam pale, but he goes and fetches the horse and gets it ready with shaking hands while Peter taps his foot, his impatience growing with every second. When the horse is finally ready, Peter snatches the reins, swings up into the saddle and rides off without stopping. Stiles has less than a half hour’s head start, but Peter knows how fast his horse travels. They could be miles away by now.

Peter tilts his head back, nose twitching. It’s easy enough to follow the scent of his horse and his husband, although his heart drops into his stomach when he smells exactly how devastated Stiles is. It’s like a slap in the face. The stench of fear and pain and anger run strong through Stiles’s scent, and Peter has to take a moment to gather himself. Then Peter urges his horse forward, following the trail, his heart beating far faster than it has any right to at the thought that even if he finds his lamb, he’s lost him. He wonders if there’s any way he can make this right.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by the sight of his own mount trotting towards him, riderless. His heart catches in his throat as he increases his speed and gallops past in the direction the horse has come from.

He doesn’t get far before the smell of fresh blood fills his nostrils, and as he rounds the curve near the stream, he sees Stiles laying on the ground.

It’s everything he was most afraid of.

There’s a pool of blood, and a thick tree branch clearly visible where it enters Stiles’ side, jut under the ribcage on the right. Peter leaps from his horse and rushes to the body. He places a hand on Stiles’s throat and feels a fluttery, thready pulse that slows even as he counts the beats.

Peter looks down at the broken body, and guilt courses through him.

He caused this.

His wolf takes over. He throws back his head and _howls,_ long and sorrowful and piercing, all his grief and fear and misery echoing in the cry. Great sobs rack through him as he gathers Stiles as close as he can manage around the gaping wound, and mourns his loss.

Maybe it’s the noise Peter’s making, or maybe it’s the way he jostles Stiles as he gathers him up, but suddenly Stiles draws in a long, gasping breath. Peter’s attention snaps to his face, and he’s beyond relieved to see Stiles’s eyes flutter open.

“Lamb?” he gasps out.

Stiles coughs, and gives an agonized cry. “Peter? I think I’m-” Stiles pulls in air, and it’s painful to listen to. “I – I might be dying.” He stops talking to draw another tiny breath, and whimpers. He opens and closes his mouth, trying to form words.

Peter runs a hand soothingly though his hair and waits,every muscle tense as he fights the urge to lean in and bite down without permission. Stiles deserves the dignity of choice.

“If – if you bite me, will I heal?” Stiles gasps out, and Peter's able to breathe again.

“Yes, lamb.” Peter stares into Stiles’s eyes, willing him to understand. “Are you asking?”

There’s a bubble of pink froth staining Stiles lips when he whispers, _”Yes,”_ before slumping into unconsciousness again.

Peter’s fast, his fangs are sharp, and they drive in deep. He only hopes it’s enough.

He presses a hand to Stiles’s chest, but his heartrate’s still unsteady, weak. Peter braces himself, closes his eyes, and draws Stiles’s pain. He swears as his veins burn with the intensity of it, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop until it’s done.

He listens carefully, and there it is. 

KA-thunk

KA-thunk

KA-thunk

A steady heartbeat, slightly faster. He glances down, and sees that Stiles is marginally less pale. It's no guarantee, but it's _something_ at least. He knows he has to work fast, because if the bite is taking, the healing will kick in, and he needs to get Stiles off the accursed tree before that happens. He braces himself, and hauls Stiles up and off the branch with a sickening squelch.

Stiles lets out a wet gurgle and the hole in his side starts to gush, the blood bright and accusing as it spills out. Peter slaps a hand over the wound and holds it closed, muttering _pleasepleaseplease_ under his breath, hoping that he wasn't too late.

He prays desperately to the old gods that this will work, that he can have this one thing, that everything he loves won’t be stripped away once again.

* * *

Sometimes, the old gods hear.

And sometimes they answer.

* * *

As Peter watches, the gaping wound starts to knit itself together, and Stiles takes a deep breath.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I'm late posting because i worked a long day, and I didn't want to post this when it wasn't right because it's an important chapter. But here! have these two finally using their words!

****

Stiles can _hear_ things.

He can hear _everything_ , in fact. He’s naked, and there’s a body wrapped around him, and he’s not dead. He’s not even in pain. He cracks one eyelid to be met with the sight of his own bedroom, and then Peter’s murmuring _shhhh_ in his ear, running a hand through his hair, and Stiles wonders if he dreamed the whole thing.

Except he didn’t, he knows. Because something is different. He closes his eyes again and stays still and quiet while he runs through what he remembers. Peter losing his temper. Michael. Riding off, threatening to go home. Falling. Pain.

And Peter.

Peter howling, tears streaking his face, holding Stiles close. Peter, urging him to ask for the bite. Teeth at his shoulder. Peter muttering desperate prayers and promises under his breath. His body healing. _Changing._

His skin feels too warm, and everything’s sensitive, and he can hear soft voices and footsteps far more clearly than he ever has before.

So this is what being a werewolf is like.

Stiles’s body is a mess of sensation and emotion, but he has an overriding need to be close to Peter, touch him. He’s _drawn_ to him, and it goes far beyond their relationship. Peter’s _Alpha,_ and Stiles needs him.

He sniffs the air, and his senses are flooded with something spicy -sweet and addictive, and he moans at the taste of it filling his throat. “Alpha?” he says, and his voice is loud to his own ears, sounds rusty and disused, but something in him curls in satisfaction at hearing the word come out of his mouth.

Peter nuzzles the back of his neck. “Shhhh, I’m here. What do you remember, lamb?”

Stiles blinks, clears his throat. “We fought, and I rode off and I fell? But you found me.” He continues to sniff the air, chase the intoxicating smell.

“I found you, sweetheart,” Peter confirms. His grip tightens. “I thought I was too late, but the bite took beautifully. My perfect little wolf.” The tantalizing aroma changes then, becomes warmer, richer.

Stiles takes a minute to savor it. He can feel Peter’s presence within him somehow, like a warm glow in his chest that chants _AlphaAlphaAlpha_. He feels more alive than he ever has, and his heart races with the thrill of it. He wriggles in Peter’s arms and turns to face him. “I’m a werewolf.”

“You’re a werewolf. You asked, do you remember?”

Peter’s gazing at him intently, and when Stiles nods and says, “I remember. I wanted it,” the scent changes again, becomes lighter, and now it’s apples and cinnamon and sugar and honey and rich red wine, all mixed together. Stiles inhales deeply. “What _is_ that? It smells so good. It’s like comfort, like baking day at the castle. Where is it coming from?”

Peter gives him a soft smile. “Do you remember me telling you how wolves can smell how you’re feeling?”

Stiles nods, and Peter looks at him expectantly. The knowledge bursts into Stiles’s consciousness. “Oh my god, it’s _you!_ I can smell you! Why do you smell so good?” Stiles can’t help it, he burrows into Peter’s side humming with contentment, and Peter laughs.

“That’s the smell of happy, darling.”

* * *

Stiles thinks he could spend forever just rolling in _the smell of happy_ , but his body dictates otherwise. He’s desperate for the bathroom, and he reeks of old sweat. There’s still dried blood on his back and side, even though the wound’s gone. “It’s best not to disturb a wolf undergoing the change, so I’m afraid we left you dirty,” Peter tells him apologetically when Stiles emerges from the bathroom sniffing himself.

Stiles shrugs. “One day without a wash won’t kill me.”

Peter’s eyebrow cocks up. “Sweetheart, it’s been closer to a week.”

 _“A week?”_ No wonder he’s rank. Stiles had wondered if it was just his newly sensitive nose.

Peter lifts the blankets and extends an arm, and Stiles dives back into their blanket cocoon, curls up against Peter’s side. He craves the contact, and something in him settles at being held close. “Your body had to heal and recover from the change,” Peter explains. “You slept for four days solid, only woke once or twice to mutter about something and then you were out again.”

Stiles raises his head and takes a closer look at Peter. He has dark shadows under his eyes, and his long hair is a mess of uncombed knots and messy braids. “What about you? Did you sleep?” he asks, a suspicion forming.

“I lay down with you. It’s the same as sleep,” Peter answers, ever evasive.

Stiles sighs. “Did you spend the whole time worrying?”

The look Peter gives him is heartbreaking. “Of course. Worrying if you’d survive, worrying that I’d made you hate me, worrying if you’d stay. I know I behaved unspeakably badly.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s aware they still have a lot to talk about, but he doesn’t know how to approach it, and from his expression, neither does Peter. Stiles settles for, “I don’t hate you,” and curls back in close.

Stiles spends some time laying with his head on Peter’s chest, listening to his heartbeat and drawing comfort from it, but then he’s distracted by the sound of approaching voices - one in particular. It’s a voice Stiles knows well, and wasn’t ever expecting to hear in Hale. He sits up, barely noticing the ease with which he drags himself out of Peter’s grip. “Is that –?“ He turns to Peter excitedly. “Is that _Erica?_ ”

Peter beams. “It certainly is.” He swings out of bed and pulls on a pair of trousers before opening the door and calling “Erica, your boy’s awake.”

There’s the sound of running footsteps and then Stiles finds himself wrapped in a strong hug, blonde hair in his face and Erica sprawled in his lap, heedless of his nakedness. “Eri!” he cries. “What are you doing here?”

She pulls back, face split in a wide grin. “Peter sent for me, wanted to know if I’d come and work for him. I was on my way to be your new housekeeper, and then we passed a messenger traveling to Beacon to say you’d been hurt and bitten, so I just rode faster to make sure you were okay. Are you? Okay?”

Gods, he’s missed her. Stiles hugs back, until Erica makes a pained sound, and Peter’s hand is on his arm. “Wolf strength, Stiles,” he cautions, and Stiles loosens his grip with a guilty start.

“Oh god, did I hurt you?”

Erica shakes her head, still grinning. “I’m used to it.” She clears her throat and lowers her voice. “Boyd, he…gives good hugs, if you know what I mean.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively, and Stiles bursts out laughing.

“You and the wall of muscle. I’m not even surprised.” Erica just smirks. “You’re really here to stay?” Stiles asks, needing to be sure.

“She certainly is,” Peter cuts in. “I knew she and Boyd had designs on each other, and I thought you’d like a familiar face. It was meant to be a surprise for you. I arranged it before – “ He falters, and his scent turns bitter. Stiles wrinkles his nose, knows that Peter’s worried about their fight, about Stiles’s declaration that he's going home.

Stiles turns to Erica. “Eri, I’m so happy you’re here, but I need to talk to Peter, okay? We have some things to clear up.”

Erica nods her understanding, climbs off the bed and kisses Stiles’s cheek lightly. “Of course, sweet prince. I’ll be here if you need me.”

* * *

Once they’re alone the silence hangs heavy between them, until finally Peter speaks. “Will you still go back to Beacon?”

Stiles can hear the uncertainty in Peter’s voice, can smell the sour notes spoiling his delicious honey-butter-spice scent. He sighs and gets out of bed, retrieves some trousers and a shirt. He can’t have this conversation naked. Once dressed, he turns to face Peter. “It depends. Do you even want me to stay?”

His wolf already knows the answer, can feel it humming under his skin, can read Peter like a book, now. Stiles still wants to hear it, though.

Peter reaches out a hand, hesitant, and traces the line of Stiles’s jaw. “Of course I want you to stay. I care for you, Stiles. More than I thought possible. I’m sure I don't deserve a second chance, but I’d like one.” His gaze drops to the floor. “I was wrong to lose my temper like I did. It’s been four years since Michael, but seeing that mirror was a shock, and I reacted badly. I’m so sorry, lamb.”

Stiles can hear Peter’s heartbeat, and even if he couldn’t he can read the truth of it in his eyes. “Tell me about the mirror?”

Peter sits on the bed, elbows rested on his knees, head hanging low. “It was going to be a gift,” he whispers. “I was carving it for his birthday. Michael always did like to preen.”

Stiles’s heart clenches, and his stomach roils. “You still love him.”

Peter raises his head and looks at Stiles, shakes it in disagreement. “No. I’ll always treasure his memory, but I’ve done my grieving.”

“Then why – why have you saved everything?” Stiles wants to believe Peter, but he doesn’t understand.

Peter spreads his hands wide. “What would I have done with it all? I put it off at first because it was too painful. And it wasn’t something I would have asked anyone else to do. And then I just…put it out of my mind.”

Stiles can see it. He remembers when his mother passed, how long her gowns had stayed hanging in his father’s rooms because he couldn’t bear for anyone to touch them. He nods slowly. “I guess. You were still an ass, though.”

“And you were hurt because of it. I thought I was going to lose you. I still might lose you.”

Peter looks so bereft, Stiles can’t take it. For all that they argued, and he threw out the threat of leaving, Stiles can’t shake the affection that’s slowly been growing for his husband. He sits down next to Peter and takes one of his hands in his own. The bond between them thrums bright, and Stiles can sense Peter’s uncertainty, his quiet misery. “You didn’t lose me, though. You saved me.” It raises the other big question in his mind. “Why didn’t you turn me before, though? Why didn’t you offer? When I asked about the bite you’d never give me a straight answer. I thought I wasn’t good enough. That you didn’t really care.”

Peter’s quiet as he looks at their entwined fingers, and Stiles waits for an answer. Finally Peter says, “ I couldn’t offer you the bite. I made an Alpha promise to your father. He demanded that as a condition of our marriage I wasn’t ever to turn you, unless you specifically asked. I wasn’t allowed to offer it, and I wasn’t to _tell_ you I couldn’t offer it. It was the only condition he had, and I wanted you, far more than I should have, so I didn’t argue. I said yes.”

Stiles’s mind stutters over that. “Wait – what do you mean you wanted me? You didn’t just marry me to spite Kate?”

Peter raises an eyebrow and a small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “That wasn’t the point I was trying to make, but yes. The fact I got my revenge on Kate just made it better, but it was you I was interested in from the start. You enthralled me, if I’m honest.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open. “You never said.”

Peter raises a brow. “I’m fairly sure the very first thing I said to you was _‘I like you, Stiles’_.”

Stiles thinks back. It was. He remembers thinking _you don’t know me._ It seems a lifetime ago.

Peter continues. “I was confident I’d find a way to encourage you to ask for the bite without breaking my promise. But it turned out to be more difficult than I anticipated. Braeden was meant to nudge you into asking me, and then I’d say _‘are you asking’_ and you’d say something like _‘would you turn me if I did ask’_ and I’d tell you _yes_ , and then I wouldn’t have broken my word. Except you never took the bait, and I wasn’t sure what to do next. To be honest I was thinking of setting Cora on you to tell you what an impressive wolf you’d be.”

Stiles stares at his husband. “You know, you could have just told me. Ignored that part where my father likes to keep everything a secret.”

Peter shakes his head. “I couldn’t break the Alpha promise.”

Stiles thinks about that for a minute. “So – if I hadn’t asked when I was injured in the woods, would you have let me die rather than break your vow?” It suddenly seems vitally important to know whether Peter would have let him bleed to death.

Peter’s grip on his fingers tightens. “Never. Turning someone’s not something I like to do without permission, but in your case, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I couldn’t lose you. I really don’t know why your father insisted on those terms in the first place.”

Stiles does, though.

He knows their family history, has heard the stories, and understands _exactly_ why his father insisted. Stories, he realizes, that Peter has no clue about. For once, Stiles is the one who knows things. “I’m not surprised he insisted. It’s because of Great – great – Uncle Mieczyslaw,” he says quietly.

Peter makes an inquiring noise.

“It was a long time ago,” Stiles explains. “Mieczyslaw was traveling, and he got lost. Somehow ended up crossing paths with a pack. They turned him without permission. He broke away and came home, but there was something wrong with him after that. He couldn’t control himself, and they say he was insane. He had to be kept chained up, and he begged them to kill him, put him out of his misery. But they wouldn’t do it, nobody wanted to spill royal blood, so he lived out his days wrapped in chains in a basement. In the end he must have found someone who listened to his pleas, because they found him dead one morning, poisoned by wolfbane.”

Peter makes a hurt noise. “That poor man,” he says softly. “Away from his pack when he was newly turned? Of course, he went feral. And then to be left to rot? I can’t imagine it. And they say werewolves are animals.” He shudders.

“My dad, he must have told me that story fifty times when I was a growing up, especially when he’d been drinking strong wine. The thought of it terrified him. Said he couldn’t imagine anything worse than being betrayed by your own body. I think he was afraid if you turned me without consent the same thing would happen.”

Peter leans in and rubs their shoulders together. “Never, lamb. I would _never_ turn someone without permission except if they were dying. I would have offered you the bite in a heartbeat, if I’d been able. But your father was absolutely adamant, and the man’s as stubborn as they come.”

They sit in silence together, leaning in close, until finally Stiles says, “I’m going to give him hell when I see him. He can’t keep doing this, making my choices for me.”

Peter tenses slightly. “When you see him? Does that mean you’re going back?”

Stiles bites his lip and considers it. “I don’t know,” he finally admits. “I don’t know if I’d fit in back in Beacon. And I don’t really want to leave, not now I’m a wolf. But there’s nothing for me to do here.”

“What do you mean, nothing to do?“

Stiles huffs, frustrated. “I fill my days drifting around the place. I barely know anyone. You don’t let me come with you. Do you know what my big achievement is every day _? I collect the eggs,_ Peter.”

Peter’s silent for a moment before saying, “So you were in that room…”

“Because I was bored, and I wanted to be helpful. And I didn’t know what it was, or I never would have touched anything. But you didn’t tell me. You never tell me _anything_. And I can’t spend the rest of my life knowing nothing and doing nothing.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Doing nothing? You won’t be _doing nothing._ I was waiting for you to get settled, that’s all, and for Boyd to get back, before I started training you.”

“Training me for…?” Stiles prompts.

Peter flops backwards onto the bed. “Training you to run the pack. Ye gods, I’m bad at this.”

Stiles looks at him, surprised.

Peter throws an arm over his eyes as he admits. “I’m – I forget, that I need to tell you things, that you don’t know how pack works.”

“Peter, what are you saying?” Stiles is confused.

Peter peeks out from under his arm, his expression apologetic. “That I want you to rule with me, of course. The Alpha mate is second only to the Alpha. We work side by side. It’s the way it’s always been. But I didn’t want to push, and then you were such a mild-mannered little thing, all ‘ _Yes Alpha, No Alpha’_ and I didn’t know if you were strong enough for it. And it never occurred to me to spell it out what your role would be, because everyone _knows_ that’s how it works.”

It sounds like something Peter’s made up on the spot. “Was that really always the plan, or is it just because I’m a werewolf now?” Stiles demands.

Peter sits up, cups Stiles’s face and gazes into his eyes. “Always, lamb. You have the compassion I lack, a softer side, the ability to forgive. I need you to balance out my baser instincts, smooth my rough edges. It’s just one of the things that made me choose you.” Stiles cocks his head, listens to Peter’s heartbeat. It’s steady. “Have I ever lied to you?” Peter asks.

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that. Second only to the Alpha. And Peter never thought to tell him. His emotions do something complicated, and he honestly doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry right now.

It’s what he’d hoped for - a place in the pack, a role, a future. But the fact remains that his husband is an idiot who didn’t tell him, and Stiles decides that Peter needs to be taught a lesson.

He swiftly moves to push Peter back against the bed, straddle his lap and drag his arms over his head, because he can do this now, he can be the one hauling _Peter_ round for a change. Then he leans in right next to Peter’s ear, and _growls._ It’s deep and loud and menacing, and Stiles never thought he’d make such a sound. Peter’s eyes snap open in shock as Stiles holds him down and hisses out, “You let me wander around for _weeks_ feeling useless because you _forgot_ to tell me I’ll be ruling with you?”

Peter whines and tilts his head, baring his throat in abject apology, and Stiles is instinctively thrilled. “I should have turned you over to Derek, let him teach you the traditions,” Peter admits. “He’s better at it than I am – I’ve always been too impatient - too harsh, they tell me. But I was foolish. I didn’t have time for you, but I didn’t want to share you either. I _liked_ it when I came home and you were so eager to see me. I didn’t think about what it must have been like for you.”

Stiles’s annoyance gives way to surprise, and he sits back, releasing Peter’s hands. “Are you telling me you have a _jealous streak?_ ”

“An Alpha is always possessive of his mate. It’s how we are.” Peter sounds almost petulant and he won’t meet his gaze, and Stiles has a moment of sympathy for him. He doesn’t think Peter’s had to explain himself to anyone for a very long time.

Still.

“If we’re going to rule together, you’d better let me do all the talking, because you’re terrible at it.” He pokes Peter in the chest with a fingertip to make his point. “And you’ll tell me _every single thing_ there is to know about being a werewolf, and you won’t mock me for what I don’t know. You’ll take me with you every day and you’ll teach me how to run a pack. And you’ll never _, ever_ make any kind of deal with my father again.”

The thing in his chest that connects him to Peter flares with what Stiles can only describe as _hope_. “If we rule? Does that mean you’ll stay?”

Stiles could be cruel, could make Peter wait for an answer, but he remembers the agony in Peter’s howl when he found Stiles’s body, the tear streaked face, the urgent prayers. He thinks maybe Peter’s suffered enough for now.

“I’ll stay.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I skipped a day or two posting because work was a nightmare, but to make up for it here's an extra long chapter.

Stiles didn’t know how much he didn’t want to leave until he made the decision to stay. Something uncurls in his chest at Peter’s thrilled expression, and he lets himself be flipped over and pinned down, Peter’s body curled protectively over him. “I’ll try and do better, lamb, I promise,” Peter murmurs in his ear. There’s something cozy and addictive about being surrounded by Alpha, and Stiles relaxes into the mattress. “That’s it, sweetheart,” Peter soothes him, and that happy smell is back again.

“What do I smell like to you?” Stiles asks, curious. “Is my happy smell the same as your happy smell?”

Peter buries his nose in the crook of Stiles’s neck and sniffs exaggeratedly, his stubble tickling and scraping and making Stiles squirm and snort. “You smell absolutely divine,” Peter declares, and places a kiss on Stiles’s forehead. “Different from me, but perfect.”

Stiles can feel the smile on his face. “You really do like me,” he says, still amazed by that fact.

“I really do. And I think you’re going to be a magnificent wolf. But for now what we need is quiet time, just the two of us, while you adjust. Let me take care of you lamb, help you settle into your wolf.”

Stiles is lulled into a sort of daze by the heat of Peter’s body, his soft voice in his ear, and the way their bond pulses. He notes dimly that it’s not the only one he can feel, that there are others at the edge of his consciousness, slowly unfurling, making themselves known. _Pack,_ his wolf whispers. Stiles has never had much in the way of family, but he guesses that’s changed now. He smiles to himself, and lets himself enjoy the sensation.

Eventually Peter rolls them over, and running his fingers through Stiles’s hair, declares, “You’re filthy.”

“Mmm.” Stile frowns at the thought of the springs, of getting out of bed, of seeing other people. He’s not ready for that, everything still too sensitive and new.

Peter must be able to read his thoughts, because he lays a hand on Stiles’s arm. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He slips out of bed and leaves the room, and is back minutes later with a bowl of steaming, soapy water and a washcloth. He peels Stiles out of his clothes, rolls Stiles onto his back and starts to wash him, soft gentle caresses with the cloth as he wipes away the dirt and sweat and dried blood. His expression is intent as he works his way down Stiles’s body before turning him over and doing the same, then drying him with utmost care and attention. “There,” he says, his tone fond. “Clean little lamb,” He sounds distinctly pleased with himself.

Stiles sniffs the air, and himself. ”Definitely better,” he admits.

His stomach chooses that moment to growl, and he grumbles as he goes to get out of bed, but Peter shakes his head. “I’ll bring you a tray. Stay there.”

“Are we just going to hide in here?” Stiles asks, amused. “Don’t you have to run the pack?”

“Derek can manage just fine,” Peter replies. “You’re more important right now.”

Stiles feels a warm glow at that. Peter really is trying. Maybe he was trying all along, but Stiles just didn’t recognize it, he muses. His stomach growls again, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten in days, and Peter busses a kiss across his cheek before leaving the room and coming back with a bowl of some kind of stew. It smells heavenly, and Stiles’s mouth waters. Peter watches on as he works his way through the meal, soaking up the gravy with chunks of soft white bread, still warm from the oven. Everything tastes better, richer, _more_ somehow, and he says as much. Peter nods. “All your senses are enhanced, sweetheart. Taste, smell, hearing, sight.” He runs a delicate fingertip across the top of Stiles’s shoulders, making him shudder, and adds, “Touch,” with a smirk.

Stiles wants nothing more than to explore that further, but he shrugs away from Peter’s maddeningly wonderful touch, because although his body wants it, his mind isn’t there yet, too distracted by his new nature. “Later. First, teach me to be a wolf.”

Peter grins. “With pleasure, lamb.”

* * *

They spend three days holed up together. They do leave the bedroom, but they also spend long hours in there wrapped around each other as Peter whispers the secrets of his kind in Stiles’s ear, holding him close and reassuring him when he gets stuck in his shift, talking him through controlling his claws and fangs. Peter spends several hours teaching him to spot a lie, using Erica as their test subject. She tells the most outrageous stories, just so that Stiles can learn to spot the uptick in her heartbeat. 

And they talk about other things, too. Stiles tells Peter how lonely he was, how desperate. He tells Peter he’s forgiven him, but makes Peter promise never to shut him out like he did. Peter admits to having failed Stiles, to being terrible with his words, and apologizes yet again. Stiles lets him, because he knows they both need to work though it, lay it to rest. 

Stiles adjusts to the changes in his body, and somewhere along the way he admits to himself that he’s really very fond of his not so scary idiot husband.

On the morning of the third day, when Stiles wakes he finds they’ve shifted during the night and he’s the one pressed into the heat of Peter’s back. One part of him in particular is pressed into Peter’s ass. He rocks forwards, rubbing his erection against the soft skin, and a hand shoots back and grabs his hip, stilling him. “Lamb?” Peter croaks out, voice hoarse with sleep. They haven’t touched each other like this, not since Stiles was turned.

But Stiles _wants._

He leans in and kisses the back of Peter’s neck. “I want you,” he murmurs, suddenly bold. Peter’s scent changes from the low-grade contentment that Stiles is used to, to something sharper, tangier, and Stiles knows, can tell now, that Peter wants, too.

It’s not just sex this time.

It’s making love.

It’s slow, sweet, long kisses and instantly fading lovebites. It’s Stiles with his hands tangled in long hair. It’s Peter kissing his way down Stiles’s torso, teasing or worshipping, Stiles isn’t sure which, doesn’t really care. It’s a mouth around his cock, hot and perfect and oh so good. It’s Stiles rolling his hips as Peter sucks him off, and something like a howl escaping when he comes into that glorious heat. It’s Peter kissing him after, and Stiles tasting traces on himself on his husband’s tongue. 

Peter props himself on his elbow and gazes into Stiles’s eyes. “You are my precious lamb, and I adore you,” he says quietly.

Stiles hears no lie in his heartbeat.

“I adore you too,” he admits, and basks in the delighted smile Peter gives him.

He goes to move, to take Peter in hand, but Peter shakes his head, instead rutting lazily against the crease of Stiles’s thigh while he continues to kiss him. Stiles kisses back, his whole body loose-limbed and pliant, lets Peter slowly work his way to orgasm, and Peter buries his face in the crook of Stiles neck and pants as he comes.

In that moment, Stiles is utterly content.

* * *

After three days, Stiles insists on leaving the house. Peter arches a brow at him. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I need some fresh air. And I’ll be fine. You’ve taught me well.” He pops the claws on one hand and retracts them again to prove his point.

Peter looks like he wants to object, but in the end he nods. “We’ll go to the springs. We’ll take Erica.”

“She hasn’t been yet?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I’ve been a little busy. I haven’t had time to show her around properly.”

“You really are a useless host, you know that?”

Peter’s mouth quirks up. “What a rude little monster I married.”

Stiles shrugs. “Too bad. You’re stuck with me now.” Somewhere over the last week, he’s completely lost his fear of offending Peter, probably because he can read him now, knows when he’s teasing. It turns out Peter has been teasing Stiles a lot more than Stiles thought, poking gentle fun at him. Now that Stiles has scent and body language to guide him in a way he didn’t before, it helps him understand Peter far better than he could when he was human. The way the pack always seemed able to communicate wordlessly makes sense, now.

Peter grabs him round the hips and pulls him close, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m very happy to be stuck with you. Now let’s go and get that girl and take her to the springs. I have a feeling she’ll be far less of a delicate flower about shedding her clothing than you were.”

Stiles goes to collect Erica, tells her she’s taking the morning off, and then they take her to the springs. Erica stares wide eyed at the steaming water, and Stiles isn’t sure if it’s the springs themselves or the naked bodies that make her smile so broadly. As Peter predicted, she doesn’t hesitate to shed her clothes and follow them into the water. Stiles catches her casting an appreciative glance over Peter’s naked form, and a wild surge of possessiveness overtakes him. A low growl springs unbidden from his throat and he steps in front of Peter, shielding him.

Erica gives him a flat look. “Relax, Stiles. I’m not going to steal your wolf. I have one of my own.”

Stiles flushes, but Peter steps up behind him and murmurs in a voice low enough that only Stiles can hear, “Do you know what it does to me, little wolf, when you claim me as your own?” From the scent rolling off him, Stiles can guess.

He gives Erica an apologetic grin. “Still learning. Sorry.”

She shrugs. “You can’t blame me for looking. You husband’s very pretty.” Stiles can _feel_ the growl itching at the back of his throat, but then she adds, “He’s no Boyd, mind you.”

Peter throws back his head and laughs, and the tension drains away.

They spend half an hour soaking in the water, and Stiles is thrilled to find that he’s not nearly as affected as he was when he was human, and manages to retain control of his limbs. Erica, on the other hand, looks completely blissed out, and starts to slide down the wall. Stiles wonders if that’s how he looked the first time Peter brought him here. He nudges her. “Eri? You need to get out now. The springs take it out of you.”

“Noooo,” she grumbles. Stiles sighs, stands, and hauls her to her feet, but she can barely keep her footing. Peter watches with amusement as Stiles picks her up and carries her over to the towel room, wrapping her tightly before walking back to the house.

Once there, Stiles takes her to her room and deposits her in her bed. “Sleep,” he commands.

Erica waves a sleepy hand at him. “But, lunch.”

“Sleep. Peter and I can feed ourselves.” Stiles sits on the side of the bed and is unable to resist running a hand through Erica’s hair, instinctively wanting the contact. “Thank you for coming. I know it was a big decision.”

Erica gives him a dopey smile. “Not really. Boyd already asked me to come back with him. Told me about pack. Explained things. S’why no clothes didn’t bother me. He says wolves like to be bare.”

Stiles had wondered about that, why Erica didn’t seem shocked at the springs. “You were better prepared than I was,” he admits with a wry smile.

Erica giggles. “That’s because my wolf uses his words.”

“Boyd barely speaks!” Stiles protests.

Erica looks unbearable smug. “He does to me. You should hear how loud he is, when we - “

Stiles holds up a hand to stop her. “I don’t need to know. Now go to sleep.”

“Don’t want to. Not paid to lie around in bed,” she grumbles, but her eyes are closing as she speaks. She asleep before Stiles has even left the room.

* * *

Over the course of the next few days, Stiles shadows Peter as he goes about his business. It’s partly to learn, and partly because he has a deep, unyielding need to be close to him. “It’s all part of being a baby wolf,” Peter assures him. “It’ll wear off.”

Stiles isn’t sure if he wants it to. 

He takes the time one afternoon to go to the stables, where Braeden hugs him tight before scolding him about going off on unknown horses that he can’t control. But she also leads him to the back of the stables and produces a stunning grey beast, far bigger than he’s used to, only slightly smaller than Peter’s horse in fact. “I think you’re ready to move on from Honey,” she tells him. “You need a bigger, faster horse if you’re going to keep up with the Alpha.”

Stiles eyes the horse dubiously. “Go ahead, try him,” Braeden encourages.

Stiles rolls his shoulders as if preparing for battle, and hoists himself up in the saddle. He immediately discovers that it’s different, as a wolf. He’s in tune with the horse beneath him somehow, and when he lays a hand on his neck and shushes, the animal settles instantly. He clicks his tongue and flicks the reins, and the horse moves easily, walking forwards. He looks at the stable doors and at Braeden, who gives a reassuring nod.

Gathering his nerve, he walks outside. Once there he hesitates for a moment as his body freezes at the memory of the last time he rode, but then he remembers the old saying about _getting right back on the horse_ , and supposes there might be some truth in it.

If he falls off this time, at least he’ll heal.

He spurs the horse forward and it takes off at a gallop, and it’s like nothing Stiles has ever experienced before. Instead of struggling to maintain control, he lets the animal part of him lead, and he finds that his body works with the horse instinctively.

It’s feels like he’s flying.

He thunders across the compound, his movements sure, his seat steady, and he lets the horse have its head. They go impossibly faster, but he’s never at risk of falling, and he laughs delightedly at the speeds he reaches. It’s only when he sees he’s approaching the edge of the woods that he wheels back around, to find Peter coming up behind him on his own mount. He points accusingly. “I thought I was a terrible rider, but it’s just because I wasn’t a wolf!”

Peter laughs. “Oh no lamb, you really were terrible. But it’s true that being a werewolf helps. Do you like your gift?”

Stiles blinks. “Gift?”

Peter indicates the horse. “This one’s yours to keep, sweetheart. A token of my affection. The Alpha mate needs his own mount after all, a horse worthy of his status.”

Stiles beams at that. He has status.

Peter thinks he's worthy.

* * *

Stiles jiggles from foot to foot, tapping his fingers on his leg. He can feel the pull of the moon even though it’s not nightfall, wants to jump out of his skin. He’s excited, and maybe a touch nervous. Stiles is aware that his first full moon could go one of two ways.

If he’s lucky, it’ll be a joyful occasion where he connects fully with his wolf for the first time. If he’s not, he’ll lose control and need Peter to restrain him. Peter steps up behind him and places a calming hand on the back of his neck. “Settle, sweetheart. I’ll be right here with you. I’m not shifting fully, so I can help you keep control if you need it.”

Stiles bites his lip. “But you should lead the pack. You’re the Alpha.”

“And as the Alpha, it’s my duty to take care of my baby wolf. I did it with Liam for the first few months, it’s nothing unusual.” He leans in close. “Although, I hope I’ll get to take care of you in ways that I never did with Liam.”

Stiles laughs loud and bright, releasing some of the tension that has him wound as tight as a drum. “You’re insatiable,” he accuses lightly.

“Well you’re irresistible, what do you expect, lamb?” Peter teases.

“I’m not a lamb,” Stiles grouses, but there’s no heat in it.

“ _Lamb,_ ” Peter insists, resting his chin on Stiles’s shoulder and licking at the shell of his ear in a way he knows will make Stiles shiver. “Young, tender, delicious.”

Stiles snorts. “What does that make you then?”

Peter considers for a moment. ”Lucky. It makes me lucky.”

“Flatterer.” Stiles relaxes back into Peter’s hold. “Is it time?”

“Not quite.” Stiles frowns. This time last month, Peter was already down at the meeting space, helping organize the food and drink, giving directions, lighting the fires. Tonight though, he seems to be dawdling.

But then Peter turns him around and kisses him, and Stiles gets distracted by soft, full lips, the gentle scrape of stubble, and a hand on his ass, and he forgets to ask what’s going on.

* * *

It’s dark when they step outside and make their way over to the horde of people. Stiles is surprised to find the whole pack assembled and already waiting, and as he and Peter approach they step back, clearing a path for them. Peter leads a very confused Stiles up onto the raised platform, and lets out a piercing whistle. Everyone’s immediately silent.

Peter extends his arms. “Tonight, under the light of the full moon, we welcome our newest wolf. I present to you Stiles, Crown Prince of Beacon, my Alpha Mate.”

There’s a cheer from the crowd, and Stiles gets a warm glow. Peter holds up his hand for quiet. “Stiles gave up his home and his kingdom in order to marry me, to secure an alliance and defeat the Argents. He is loyal, and clever, handsome and kind, and a far better husband than a surly rogue like me deserves.” There are a few scattered laughs of agreement at that. Peter pauses and his voice softens. “He’s the light of my life.”

The crowd _aaaws_ , and Stiles gets a lump in his throat. Peter’s holding his hand, so Stiles impulsively raises it and kisses the back of Peter’s knuckles, smiling at him as he does so. The look Peter gives him back makes his heart clench, it's so utterly fond. Somebody in the crowd wolf whistles, breaking the moment, and Peter clears his throat. “Wolves, make him welcome!” he declares.

The wolves all throw their heads back and howl, a symphony of sound in the night, and then there’s a surge forward, and Stiles finds himself being pulled into a hug by Derek, then Cora, then Braeden, passed along and scented, his hair ruffled, his face patted, as everyone in the pack takes turns welcoming him in their own way. It should be frightening, the press of bodies, but there’s no ill intent, just an overwhelming air of celebration, so he lets himself be fussed over and kissed and touched, working his way through the throng of people as the pack bathes him in their presence.

It takes some time, and Stiles finds himself bobbing down so the smallest of the toddlers can pat his face with fat sausage fingers, until finally there’s only Peter left. “Welcome to pack, husband,” Peter says softly, and pulls him in for a relatively chaste kiss.

Stiles can feel the pack bonds thrumming within him, stronger than before after the contact, and he smiles against Peter’s lips. “Thank you,” he breathes. “This was…” he doesn’t have words for the satisfaction that’s rolling through him right now, but he doesn’t need them.

Peter pulls back a little. “I needed to make sure you knew that I treasure you,” he says, and Stiles finds himself staring into those impossibly blue eyes. “You deserved something better than the sham of a wedding we had. You deserved a public show of respect, and I wanted this to be a fresh start.”

Stiles pulls Peter into an embrace. “A fresh start,” he repeats softly.

He likes the sound of that, of putting the past behind them.

They eat together, mingling and laughing with the other pack members. Stiles sees Erica watching it all bright-eyed, and wonders how long before she’s a wolf too. Peter stays close, always with a hand on his hip or the small of his back, quietly possessive, and Stiles finds that he likes being doted on so publicly.

But there’s a frisson of energy running under his skin, and he can sense the same in Peter. It’s the moon calling him. His gums itch with the need to let his fangs out. Peter gives him an encouraging nod. “Go ahead.”

Stiles closes his eyes, takes a breath, and shifts. When he opens his eyes, he knows they’re glowing gold. Everything looks different, sharp and crisp. There are claws on his hands, and his mouth is full of teeth. He runs a palm over his face, feels the ridges there. Peter’s standing in front of him beta - shifted, eyes blazing red. When Stiles looks around, he sees the rest of the pack have also transformed. Peter’s told him that the full shift into a wolf is a gift all Hales have, and Derek’s wolf is sleek and black. It’s him who raises his head in a howl and leads them in their run, the mass of bodies surging forward across the fields in the direction of the forest.

Stiles runs with them.

He follows along instinctively, and Peter’s with him every step of the way. He discovers that he’s fast, even on two feet, and that it’s easy to get sidetracked when the forest floor’s full of fascinating aromas and the sound of tiny creatures, but there’s no sign of the murderous rage he’d been afraid of.

He gives Peter a toothy grin, and takes off, running full pelt through the trees. It frees something primal in him, and he throws back his head and howls at the moon. He runs without stopping until he’s filthy and panting, and Peter never leaves his side. Stiles has no idea where they are when he finally slows. He panics for a split second, but Peter just tilts his head and nods, and Stiles follows him instinctively.

They spend a long time exploring the forest as they make their way back, Stiles trailing his Alpha, and when they finally emerge back at the settlement Stiles sees that there are quite a few other wolves there already, mainly the ones with younger children.

“How do you feel, lamb?” Peter murmurs.

Stiles stands still and breathes deeply, taking stock. His wolf is content, he notes, satisfied with the abundance of pack and the closeness of Alpha, and the run through the woods. The need to wear his wolf has receded, so Stiles concentrates and manages to shift back to human form, a thrill going through him when he does it seamlessly. “So good,” he grins. “I liked it.”

They arrange themselves around the firepit, Stiles sitting on the ground in front of Peter and tilting his head forwards so Peter can run soft fingers down the nape of his neck. The slight pressure is comforting, soothing, helps him ease down from the exhilaration of the run. It’s not long before he lets out a jaw-cracking yawn, and Peter chuckles. “The full moon takes a lot out of a new wolf. Shall we head inside?”

Stiles rolls his shoulders, yawns again. He cranes his head to look back at Peter. “Don’t you want to stay with the pack? You’re not even tired.”

Peter stands and draws Stiles up to his feet as he does so. “Not yet, but I plan to take you home and let you wear me out,” he purrs, and suddenly Stiles isn’t as tired as he thought he was, after all.

* * *

They sleep late the next day, both exhausted. When they finally rouse, Erica feeds them a breakfast that’s more of a lunch, and makes pointed comments about how she slept terribly and how thin the walls are. “Was she this rude at the palace?” Peter asks, amused.

Stiles nods. “Always. That’s why I like her.”

Peter pushes his plate away and stretches. “I have a meeting about where to put the new housing we’re planning. Stiles, are you coming?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I might sleep some more,” he mumbles. His limbs are heavy, and he really could do with some more rest. In all honesty, if he didn’t have enhanced healing he doubts he’d be able to sit right now – the full moon drove them into a frenzy of lust.

Peter’s about to stand when Erica appears in the doorway, frowning in a way that Stiles knows means she has an opinion on something. “You’re going out? Like that?”

Peter looks down at himself. “Like what?”

Erica takes a step forwards and says, “Alpha, your hair. It’s a mess.” She fishes in her apron pocket and pulls out a brush. “I could tidy you up, it would take no time. Appearances matter.”

Peter cocks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Erica nods. “With utmost respect (a phrase that Stiles knows coming from Erica means _‘do as I say’_ ), you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedgerow. Just sit there, and let me fix it.”

Peter looks like he’s considering arguing - Stiles could tell him not to bother. In the end though, Peter tilts his head back. “Just be quick,” he orders. (Peter has apparently also learned what _with utmost_ _respect_ means.)

Erica wields the brush expertly, working out the worst of the tangles and tidying up Peter’s braids, her hands quick and efficient. Stiles watches as she tugs on a knot that makes Peter give a throaty moan, and his gut tightens. It’s almost intimate, and he’s not sure he wants anyone having those moments with Peter except him.

It doesn’t take long for Peter to go from looking like a wild man to something more respectable. Erica steps back, satisfied. “Better.”

Peter’s lips twitch up in a hint of a smile. “I’m glad you think so. Can I leave now, or did you need to apply some rouge?”

Erica doesn’t miss a beat. “It wouldn’t suit your skin tones, Alpha.”

Stiles snorts at that, and Peter sighs loudly and shakes his head in mock dismay. “Boyd’s certainly going to have his hands full with you.”

“I certainly have my hands full with him,” she says with a wink.

Stiles chokes on air, but Peter just laughs, loud and long, while Erica stands there looking like the cat that got the cream. Once he’s stopped laughing, Peter gives Erica an appraising look. “Whenever you’re ready, come and see me. You’ll make a wonderful wolf.”

Erica’s cheeks grow pink under the praise. “Thank you Alpha. I’m flattered, but I’d like to wait until Boyd asks me, if that’s all right?”

Peter nods in understanding. “Quite right, too.” He stands. “And now, I really must go.” He leans in and drops a kiss on top of Stiles’s bedhead before striding out the door.

Once he’s gone, Stiles turns to Erica. He’s had an idea, and he’ll need her help. He gestures at the hairbrush. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

“Do what, brush your hair?” She looks genuinely confused.

Stiles shakes his head. “Brush _long_ hair. Do braiding. I’d like to –“ It seems foolish, now he says it aloud. “Peter,” he settles for.

Erica gets a soft look on her face. “You want to care for your husband?”

Stiles nods. “If he’ll let me.”

“Oh, he’ll let you,” Erica assures him. “Now, shall we practise?” She pulls her own hair out of the tightly coiled bun it’s in and shakes it.

Stiles spends the next few hours watching and learning as Erica walks him through braiding and brushing and untangling without yanking, and by the end of it he’s managed to do her hair up in an assortment of small braids that she deems acceptable. She kisses him on the cheek and hands over the brush, then tells him that she has work to do so he’d best go and nap and stay out of her way.

When Peter comes home that night, once Erica’s retired to her room and it’s just the two of them, Stiles sits in the big armchair and points the space on the floor between his legs. “Sit.” Peter gives him a look, and Stiles adds, “Please?”

“Why, exactly, am I on the ground?” Peter grumbles, even as he stretches his legs out in front of him and sits obediently.

Stiles produces the hairbrush. “I wanted to do something nice for you.” He starts undoing Peter’s braids, teasing the strands apart until his hair’s a mass of loose flowing locks, with kinks and waves throughout. Once he’s done that, Stiles takes the brush and drags it slowly through, and at the first stroke Peter lets out a deep sigh and melts against him. The smell of contentment rolls off him, and Stiles continues, encouraged.

He brushes in long, slow, steady strokes, and Peter makes little sounds of pleasure, his eyes closing. Stiles finds a sense of calm settling over him as he tends to his husband, takes care of his needs. “Is this a werewolf thing, wanting to care for you?” he asks quietly.

Peter gives a tiny nod, eyes still closed, and Stiles goes quiet, just lets himself get lost in the sound of the bristles against Peter’s hair, the way firelight’s glinting off the strands. Finally, Peter speaks. “Michael used to do this for me.”

Stiles tenses for a second, and the brush stills, but Peter’s calm as he continues, “He used to rail at me for the mess I’d let it get into. Half the time I did it just so he’d sit me down and take it in hand.” Peter reaches a hand back and rests it on the one Stiles is holding the brush with. “I’d forgotten how I loved it. Thank you, lamb.”

Stiles leans forward and nuzzles at where their hands are joined, and kisses the crown of Peter’s head. He frees his hand from Peter's and continues brushing until there’s nothing but a mass of long strands, loose and tangle free. He spends a few minutes massaging Peter’s scalp, just to hear him moan in pleasure. Then he puts the brush down and starts to braid, careful to keep his work even. Peter makes a happy rumbling sound in his chest, and Stiles’s wolf perks up. He’s pleasing his Alpha. He pulls the braids into a loose arrangement and gathers them together, fastening them carefully at the back, leaving one hanging loose on each side of Peter’s face.

Peter turns to face him, eyes hooded. Stiles swallows as he takes in the sight. Peter looks as he did on their wedding day, groomed and handsome. But now, Stiles isn’t afraid. He sees not a terrifying warlord, but a man who he’s slowly coming to adore. He reaches out and runs a finger down Peter’s jawline. “My handsome husband,” he says with a smile.

Peter catches his hand and holds it, eyes dark and lips parted. “Handsome, you say?”

Stiles nods, and feels lust stirring in his belly. “You look- “ he casts about for the right word, settling on one of Peter’s favorites - “ _delicious_ right now.”

Peter grins, all teeth, and his eyes flash red. "So do you, sweetheart." He stands without warning and grips Stiles round the waist, and then Stiles finds himself staring at Peter’s back as he’s flipped over his shoulder and carried to the bedroom.

* * *

Later, when Stiles is lying fresh-fucked and hazy, Peter props himself up on an elbow and tugs at Stiles’s short locks. “Tell me lamb, would you ever consider growing your own hair?” Peter asks quietly.

Stiles thinks of the blissed-out expression on Peter’s face as the brush ran through his hair, the way he’d sunk into a sort of trance, the unbearable closeness of it all, and nods. “I think I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing with Stiles grooming Peter's hair is specifically for Twisted_Mind, who has held my hand through this whole thing, and wanted what I refuse to call anything other than Warlord Hair Club.


	19. Chapter 19

They’re out riding when Stiles spots the figure coming across the fields, and signals Peter over. Peter shades his eyes with his hands and squints. “Messenger from Beacon.”

Stiles’s face lights up. He looks so open, so young, so happy, and Peter falls a little further in love with him right then. Not that he has far to fall – he’s the first to admit that he’s totally besotted. “It’ll be the treaty,” Stiles says.

“Most likely,” Peter agrees. It’ll just be him and Stiles traveling back this time. Peter’s looking forward to it, intends to take his time riding back. He has plans that involving seeing his husband's pale skin as they lie under the stars. The messenger gets closer, approaches Peter and gives a stiff little nod. “Alpha.” He fishes in his bag and pulls out a scroll. He hands it to Peter, who opens it and scans the contents, nodding to himself. Stiles is looking at him curiously, so he tells him, “An invitation to treaty talks in ten days’ time…followed by the wedding of the king to Lady Melissa McCall.”

Stiles’s grin widens. “We accept,” he tells the messenger, who looks to Peter for confirmation.

Peter gives his best intimidating stare. “My husband gave you your answer, what are you looking at me for?” he demands, and the man visibly pales. From the corner of his eye Peter sees Stiles sit up a little straighter and preen, which is what he was aiming for. He wants Stiles to be confident in his authority.

“Apologies, Alpha,” the rider stammers out.

Peter gestures towards the settlement. “Go ahead and find Derek, tell him you’ll stay the night before you ride back,” he says curtly, and the man nods and rides off. Stiles has moved his horse closer, and they watch the man go together.

“I wondered if the wedding would be soon.” Stiles hesitates. “Is it petty of me to hope my father falters at the claiming ceremony?’

“Petty, and completely understandable. It’s a damnable tradition and I don’t know why you do it,” Peter says bluntly. “He won’t falter, though. Deaton will offer him something to ensure he can perform.”

“Huh.” Stiles looks like this is news to him.

Peter turns sharply. “Please tell me they gave you something to relax you, wine with a herb steeped in it? They’re supposed to, to make it easier.”

Stiles frowns as if he’s struggling to recall, before his brow clears. “Was that the drink Erica gave me? I remember thinking how strong it was.”

Peter sags a little in relief. “Yes, that would be it.”

Stiles bites his lip. “And you? what did they give you?”

Peter shrugs. “Nothing. It doesn’t work on wolves. While you were with Erica, I closed myself in my bedchamber, took myself in hand, thought about your lovely long throat, and imagined you were willing. I kept myself on edge until it was time.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment, head hanging low, and Peter reaches out and lifts his chin with one fingertip. “It’s done and past, lamb, and we’ve more than made up for it, yes?”

Peter gazes into wide brown eyes, and Stiles gives a small smile. “We have. Now lets go and see if Derek’s being more hospitable to that poor rider than you were. I swear, it’s like you want people to think you’re terrifying.”

Peter just cocks a brow at him. “It suits my purposes.”

Stiles snorts. “Good thing they don’t see you when I brush your hair, then. They’d know what a softwolf you are.”

Peter doesn’t dignify that with a response, mainly because it’s true.

* * *

They ride out a week later, after Erica bullies a promise out of Peter that he’ll bring Boyd home. Watching Stiles go racing ahead of him on his grey stallion is a beautiful sight – no longer the nervous boy who clung to the saddle and was tossed around like a sack of grain, Stiles is graceful and unafraid when he rides now. He’s named his horse Shadow, and he adores it. Peter’s not certain whether it’s because the horse responds so well to Stiles or whether it’s because it was Peter’s first gift to him. He’d like to think it’s the latter.

They go slow the first day, Peter stopping to see some of the farming families that have chosen to live further out from the main settlement. Peter’s received gracefully, but he doesn’t stay long at each house, aware that people are busy and don’t have half a day to spare to entertain the Alpha and his mate. Still, as he explains to Stiles, he likes to check in every so often, make sure all’s well with his pack. Stiles nods in understanding, and Peter’s quietly proud of the way Stiles charms his new packmates. Peter also takes the time to properly point out the borders to Hale and ride along a section of them, so Stiles gets familiar with where their territory ends.

They cross the border and stop while it’s still light, and Peter builds them a fire while Stiles sets up the bedroll. They eat, and then Peter pulls Stiles into the vee of his legs so he’s leaning back against Peter’s chest and sneaks a hand inside Stiles’s trousers, stroking him lazily. Stiles makes a shocked noise, but Peter points out there’s nobody around for miles, and aren’t the stars pretty tonight, and it’s not so cold, so does Stiles even need that shirt?

Stiles pretends to object for form’s sake, but Peter’s not fooled, and he gets to fulfil his dream of having his pretty young husband writhing on his cock under the light of the moon as Peter fucks him long and slow. Afterwards Stiles grins up at him brightly, and asks, “Will we reach Beacon by tomorrow night, do you think?” and his grin becomes wider when Peter tells him they lost some time today, so they’ll probably have to camp out again.

Peter thinks back to the uncomfortable, frightened, boy who rode into his kingdom not two months ago. He knows now he didn’t make things easy for Stiles, but he’s glad they’ve gotten to where they are now. His thought are cut off by Stiles using Peter’s long hair to pull him in for a fierce kiss, then muttering against his lips, “Take me again, Alpha?”

Peter never could resist that word when Stiles whispers it so sweetly.

* * *

They start late on the second day, because Stiles insists on cleaning up at least a little before they leave, braving a nearly stream and yelping as he makes contact with the icy water. Peter watches, entertained, as Stiles scrubs himself down in record time. He refuses Peter’s offer to warm him up, pointing out that they both know where that will lead, and then what was the point of washing?

They cover a lot more distance than the previous day, and it becomes a question of whether to press on the last few hours in the dark to reach their destination or stop and reach Beacon in the morning. Peter thought Stiles would be eager to press on, but he opts to stop. Peter throws him a questioning look, and Stiles blushes a little and admits he likes having this little pocket of time to themselves, that they’ve never not been surrounded by people.

Peter wordlessly dismounts and lays out the bedroll, and is rewarded with a sweet smile. He thinks maybe he’ll get to fuck Stiles again, because since he was turned and his body isn’t subject to the same constraints as when he was human, Stiles has become a most enthusiastic lover. But instead Stiles dives under the blankets and holds Peter down with an arm across his hips while he sucks him off maddeningly slowly, laughing when Peter begs for just a little more. It’s delicious torture, and Peter revels in it. After Stiles finally picks up his pace and Peter comes down his throat, Stiles crawls up Peter’s body and ruts against him eagerly, fast to finish and grinning like a demon.

They fall asleep just like that, sticky and satisfied, and in the morning Stiles smacks Peter’s arm and chides him for letting them when he finds his belly covered with his own spend, flaky and itchy. Peter offers to lick it off, and that earns him another smack.

Stiles manages to make himself respectable with some water from his canteen and a cloth, and before long they’re outside the city limits. Stiles stops his horse and takes a deep breath, and Peter can sense his anxiety. He doesn’t say anything, just lets Stiles gather himself. He knows, Stiles has told him, that he’s nervous about his father’s reaction after Stiles becoming wolf. Peter has secretly decided that if the king’s anything less than accepting of Stiles’s new nature, Peter’s not above taking him aside and threatening him, possibly with a fang or two on show.

Finally, Stiles rolls his shoulders, sits up straight in the saddle, and nods. “I’m ready.”

They ride through the gates of the castle, and John’s there waiting for them, arms extended. Stiles slides fluidly off his horse and throws himself into the embrace, and Peter’s happy to see that there’s no hesitation on John’s part as he folds his son into his arms. He squeezes Stiles tight before holding him at arm's length, marvelling, “Look at you.” 

Stiles is tanned now, slightly taller and definitely more muscled than when he left, and his hair’s a shaggy mop, a far cry from the tidy mess it was when he left. There’s a confidence to him, and Peter’s not sure if it’s new or if it was always there and Stiles just misplaced it when they first wed in his efforts to be an obedient husband. Regardless, it suits him. “Apparently married life agrees with me,” Stiles says lightly. Peter notes that he doesn’t say ‘werewolf life’ – doesn’t mention that aspect at all, in fact. Peter can’t blame him – it’s hardly the time or place.

Stiles stretches out a hand and lightly touches the side of John’s tunic where the wound was, and Peter can tell that the wolf in him is itching to lean in and sniff at his father, search for reassurance that his father’s truly well, but instead he just says, “You’ve recovered?”

John pulls his shirt up to show the ugly scar, still pink and shiny, but completely healed. “Good as new.” He pulls his shirt down and turns to Peter. “Alpha Hale. Good journey I trust?’

“Excellent journey. I always love sleeping out in the open,” Peter replies, his mind supplying a vision of Stiles impaled on his cock, the moonlight gleaming on his skin. Peter shoots a quick glance at Stiles, and judging by the smirk on his husband’s face he’s thinking of the same thing. Peter’s quietly glad that John’s oblivious to the silent conversation he and Stiles are having.

They’re taken inside and shown to their room, and as soon as the door closes behind them Stiles has his arms wrapped around Peter’s neck, breathing his scent deeply. “It smells weird here,” he complains. “Too many bodies, not enough fresh air.”

Peter hums his agreement and grips the back of Stiles’ neck in a way he knows will comfort him. “You’ll cope, lamb. It’s only for a few days.” He leans in closer. “We could make it smell like us, if you wanted.” He licks the shell of Stiles’s ear.

Stiles shakes his head. “I want to go and see Melissa and Scott, and you need to find Boyd.” Peter sags against him, disappointed, until Stiles adds, “But later, I’m sure we’ll be tired from the trip and we’ll definitely need several hours alone.” He tugs lightly on Peter’s braids. “I brought your brush.”

Peter rewards that news with a soft kiss, because Stiles fussing with his hair is one of his new favorite things. “Of course you did, my clever little wolf.”

They part reluctantly, but they part. Duty first, pleasure later.

Peter tracks Boyd down and gets the details of what’s happened since he left – he didn’t just leave his Left Hand because he had designs on Erica, after all. He learns that John had been highly distressed when Stiles took the bite, though he’d tried to hide it around Boyd, and had contemplated riding to Hale to make sure it wasn’t forced on him. But then Melissa apparently sat him down and told him that Stiles had always known his own mind, and if John was so worried he should have thought of that before he married him into a pack.

John had sulked, but she’d been firm.

Peter’s pleased to hear that Melissa’s the kind of woman to step in and keep John from his own foolishness, and he determines to take the time to get to know her better this trip. He also gets all the details of the treaty from Boyd in advance, because he doesn’t intend to just sign what’s put in front of him, especially where the Argents are concerned.

Stiles seeks him out several hours later, eyes bright and face split with a wide smile and reports that Scott missed him, Melissa’s literally glowing, and Stiles, when he concentrated, had been able to hear the baby’s heartbeat. He glances at Boyd and gives an exaggerated yawn, stretching his arms over his head.

Boyd snorts. “Save the theatrics for the humans, Stiles. I know exactly what you’re thinking.” And it’s true – the lust is rolling off Stiles in waves.

Stiles blushes pink but Boyd just laughs and shoos them out of the meeting room he and Peter have been occupying. Stiles finds his father in his office going over the treaty paperwork, and tells him they need to rest, to recover from their travels. John nods in understanding. “A long ride takes it out of a man,” he says solemnly, and Peter has to pull Stiles out of there by the hand before he bursts out laughing.

* * *

When they emerge one braiding session, several orgasms and three hours later, they find Chris Argent has arrived. Peter finds Chris tolerable – or rather, he doesn’t despise him with the depths of loathing reserved for the rest of his family - so he manages to exchange a nod with him as they sit down for dinner.

Chris returns the gesture, and it’s a perfectly pleasant meal, with everyone on their best behavior. Peter doesn’t make mention of Chris’s sister killing his lover, and in return Chris stays silent about Peter’s gruesome beheading of his family. It’s all very civilized.

It’s after dinner that Peter sees Chris sidle up to Stiles and murmur something, then tilt his head towards to a nearby alcove. Stiles glances at Peter, and indicates that he’s going with Chris. Peter gives a tiny nod in return, and as Stiles and Chris disappear, he meanders in the direction, examining the tapestries hanging on the walls. It’s not close enough that he’s obviously listening, but still well within hearing range for a wolf.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Stiles to take care of himself, but Chris is an Argent, and Peter’s a great believer in once bitten, twice shy.

He hears Chris’s low rumble. “You wear the wolf well, Stiles.”

“I think the wolf wears me, to be honest. I’m still learning.”

Chris’s voice gets quieter. “I have to ask. Did you agree to the bite? Did Peter keep his promise to your father?”

“What do you know about any promises Peter made?” Stiles snaps.

“Your father told me. He wanted to be sure that you weren’t turned against your will.” He pauses. “He also wanted me to let you know that if you don’t want this, you should come to me. I can put you out of your misery.”

Peter’s vision mists with red at the implication, and he’s ready to grab Argent by the throat, but he doesn’t get a chance. He hears a low growling, and their bond tells him that Stiles is _furious._ “Put the fangs away Stiles,” Chris says in that same steady tone of his. “I’m only the messenger. For what it’s worth, I think you seem happy enough, but your father insisted I deliver the message, and I’m not willing to refuse and jeopardize the treaty when we’re finally on the verge of peace.”

Peter listens carefully, and finds Chris’s heartbeat is steady. 

Stiles’s on the other hand, is racing. He snarls out, “Enough! No more secrets and whispers, he can just damned well talk to me!” He emerges from the alcove and storms over to the other side of the hall where his father’s still seated, and grabs him by the collar of his shirt. “ _You!_ Come with me,” he commands, and literally drags John along the corridor and into the War Room, slamming the door behind them. Peter, Chris and Melissa and cast glances at one another and follow along, standing outside the door.

They hear Stiles’s raised voice, and they catch snatches of what he’s saying. 

“- _have no right to_ –“

“ _ raise me to rule and then keep me in the dark, throwing a husband at me with no warning –“

Peter cringes at that, and sees Chris doing the same.

“ - old enough to be married then I’m old enough to talk to –“

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Melissa murmurs, and both men make noises of agreement and nod solemnly.

Peter’s been on the receiving end of Stiles’s temper more than once in the past few weeks, and he doesn’t envy John at all. Stiles’s words cut deep, and he uses his tongue like a lash when he’s angry. But at the same time, Peter knows this has been a long time coming, so he makes no move to intervene.

Stiles is still ranting, and Peter knows once he gets going the words will rush out of him like a waterfall until he's done. He leans against the wall and gets comfortable. Chris raises an eyebrow at him. “My husband is a man of definite opinions, and it sounds like he’s sharing all of them,” Peter says wryly.

Chris remains silent for a moment, before saying, “My wife has also been known to have opinions.” He leans against the wall next to Peter.

The next thing they hear is a bellowed, “No! I’m not just your son anymore and you don’t get to interfere! Last time your secrets and meddling nearly cost me my life!” It’s followed by a crash, and something shattering. If Peter had to guess, he’d say it was the ceremonial inkwell from the sound of it.

“Should we -?” Melissa indicates the door.

Peter and Chris shake their heads in unison.

There’s silence for a few moments and the low murmur of John’s voice, before Stiles speaks again. He’s quieter, and Peter has to strain his wolf hearing to catch the words.

“- course I don’t regret the bite. And I don’t regret marrying Peter either. I love him, if I’m honest. But you - you made everything so much harder than it had to be, Dad.” He sounds devastated, and Peter stops listening and walks further away, feeling like an intruder.

He doesn’t need to hear any more.

Chris follows his lead, then Melissa. She hesitates for a moment. “Are you sure it’s safe to leave them?”

Peter shrugs. “Are any of us brave enough to go in there if it isn’t?”

Melissa places a hand unconsciously on her stomach. “As long as my groom’s alive for the big day.”

The three of them leave, going their separate ways.

* * *

Peter spends the next hour outside, wandering round the gardens and resisting the urge to go and check on his husband. He knows Stiles will find him when he’s ready. In the meantime, Peter rolls the words he heard over in his head, letting the shape of them sink into his very core.

It’s not something they’ve said, not yet. But it’s there in the way Peter towels Stiles down at the springs, in the way Stiles curls up close every night. It’s there in shared bedrolls and packed hairbrushes.

But to _hear_ it spoken aloud like that.

_I love him, if I’m honest._

Peter smiles to himself, and plucks some of the flowers from the garden, weaving them deftly into a chain. He’ll place them in Stiles’s hair tonight, and tell him he loves him, too.

* * *

Peter eventually goes back inside, and he times it perfectly because Stiles and his father are just emerging from the War Room. The king looks shaken and his eyes are red-rimmed. Stiles also looks distinctly damp in the eye socket area, but he wears an expression of grim triumph. “You promise?” he’s saying.

“I promise,” John sighs out. “I thought I was protecting you.”

Stiles pulls his father in for a hug and says quietly, “No more. Talk to me, Dad. Peter, too. We’re not monsters.”

John glances up and sees Peter standing there, and his lips quirk up the tiniest bit. “You certainly don’t look like a monster right now,” he observes, and Peter realizes he still has the flower crown he made dangling from his fingers. John takes a step forward. “My son pointed out to me, rather passionately, that I’ve done you a disservice by making you promise not to turn him and then keeping it a secret, and for that I apologize. That was never my intention.”

“I accept your apology,” Peter says quietly. He’s eager to smooth things over. “Stiles explained about your family member, and I understand your motives.”

Stiles turns to Peter then. “You need to talk to my father. To Chris Argent, too. Teach them about us. How can they trust us if they don’t know anything? Everything my father knows about wolves comes from Mad Mieczyslaw, what the Argents have told him, and you.”

“I’ve been perfectly civilized!” Peter protests.

Stiles pokes him in the chest. “ _You dropped a severed head on the dining table._ You wonder why he’s wary?”

Oh.

Peter’s forgotten that he did that in the heat of victory.

Surprisingly, John chuckles. “That doesn’t count, son. That’s the way of battle.”

Peter’s quick to agree. “Exactly. Normally, I’d never drop a severed head on a table.”

Stiles grins. “Erica would have your hide.”

“That she would, sweetheart. But you’re right. Perhaps we wolves have lived in the shadows for long enough. People fear what they don’t know.” He cocks an eyebrow at John. “Tomorrow, after the signing in the morning, I’m happy to sit with you and Christopher and tell you what you want to know.”

“ _We’re_ happy to sit with you,” Stiles corrects.

“The Alpha mate and I,” Peter amends, and is rewarded with a sweet smile.

John looks between them both, and something of the heaviness about him lifts. He cups Stiles’s face in his hands and looks into his eyes. “You’re going to be a great leader, son. I’m proud of you.” Stiles blinks a couple of times and has to clear his throat suddenly, and Peter wonders how long he’s waited to hear that.

The moment’s broken by Chris coming around the corner. He stops short before saying, “I came to make sure everyone was still alive to sign this thing tomorrow. Glad to see it.” He doesn’t sound glad, Peter notes. He sounds tired, more than anything, and it occurs to him that Chris has been fighting this war just as long as he has and has seen it put most of his family in the ground to boot.

Peter’s hit with a wave of pity for him. He says. “Christopher, it’s been pointed out to me that what John knows about werewolves might not, in fact, be fact. And it occurs to me you might be in the same boat. Stiles and I would like to change that, if you’re willing to listen. After the signing tomorrow. Nothing off limits, no question unanswered.”

Chris’s face does something complicated at that. “We’ve been taught all we know from the old texts,” he says carefully.

“And yet here you are willing to sign a peace treaty with us, which tells me that maybe you don’t trust those books as much as the rest of your family did.”

It’s Stiles who speaks next. “Come and listen, at least. Find out if any of what you know is true.”

Chris exhales. “I could do that,” he says slowly. “Listen, at least.”

It’s a start.

* * *

Peter arranges the flower crown carefully in Stiles’s hair, and he tells him he loves him, just like he'd planned. Stiles kisses him passionately, only stopping when the flowers hang askew and they’re both breathless.

Later, he elbows Peter in the ribs and mumbles, “It’s rude to eavesdrop. Don’t do it again,” but since they’re naked and come-drunk at the time, Peter doesn’t think Stiles is _that_ upset.

  



	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies one and all for the delay! Real life plus a 'flu-like' illness have kept me pretty much useless this last week.  
> Also, I...might have written a chunk of this under the influence of cold and flu tablets, so please excuse any glaring errors.

When Stiles wakes on the morning of the treaty signing, he’s greeted by the sight of his still sleeping husband, face pressed into the pillow and mouth slightly open. There’s a stray flower petal stuck to his stubble, bent and wilted. Stiles smiles to himself and brushes it away.

It’s early – there’s barely any daylight filtering into the room. But Stiles’s brain has decided to be awake and active, and he knows he won’t go back to sleep. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, thinking about what the day holds. Today, they sign a peace treaty. The end of the ongoing war between Hale and Argent. No more of Beacon getting dragged into the battles. It’s a direct result of him marrying Peter, and Stiles supposes that even if their union hadn’t worked out as well as it has, it would have been worth it to see this day.

But it has worked out. Peter loves him. He said so right in this bed, and although Stiles had suspected it, hoped for it, hearing it washed away the last of his insecurities where his husband is concerned. Stiles now knows beyond a doubt that beneath that gruff exterior and sharp tongue, Peter Hale is a softwolf. He grins at the thought.

There’s a grunt from beside him and a hand pats at him blindly, finally settling on his chest. “Why’re you ‘wake?” Peter mutters.

Stiles gives a half-shrug. “Thinking.”

Peter doesn’t say anything else, and when Stiles peeks over his eyes are still closed, and his breathing’s settled back into the rhythm of sleep. Stiles lies there, content to bask in the warmth of the body next to him and his own thoughts, and in the end he does drift back to sleep after all.

* * *

The treaty goes ahead. There are a few last minute clarifications, some minor changes, but nobody really wants to see it fall through at this late stage, so they work at it until they’re happy to sign.

Afterwards, Chris Argent stares at the piece of paper with something like wonder. “You know,” he says finally, “my daughter’s seventeen, and she’ll be the first Argent in five generations who’s not at war with Hale.”

Hearing it put like that hammers home just how momentous an occasion this is.

John fills their glasses and they toast the agreement, and as he raises his glass Stiles says, “You know Chris, you could come and visit us in Hale, see how we live.” He nods at his father. “You too. You’d like the hot springs.”

His father makes a considering noise. “Maybe. Now that we’re at peace, I could travel.” Melissa clears her throat and gives him a pointed look, and he quickly amends, “But not too soon – I’ll be newly married after all.”

Stiles goes to say something about _maybe after the baby’s born,_ but Peter elbows him sharply in the ribs and he remembers just in time that Chris doesn’t know about the child and so he takes a mouthful of wine instead. It won’t be the first royal child to be born early – Stiles himself came seven months after his parents’ wedding - but it’s also not his news to share.

Chris Argent gives Stiles a tight smile, and says, “It’s something to consider, now the travel restrictions between our borders have been lifted, but I guess your Alpha would have to invite me.”

Peter frowns. “You were just invited, Christopher. Stiles is second only to me in authority, and his word carries the same weight as mine.” He tilts his head. “I suppose that’s one of the things we’ll talk about later, how a pack works, but suffice to say you don’t dare make important decisions without Victoria’s input?”

Chris shakes his head vigorously. “I wouldn’t dream of it. She knows as much as I do and more, and she’s a force of nature.” There’s fondness and admiration in his voice, and Stiles is encouraged by that. It shows him that Chris is the kind of man who’s not strictly bound by stuffy customs and old rules.

“Hmmm. There’s something to be said for a strong partner,” Peter muses, and Stiles preens just a little at the admiring look Peter gives him when he says it. Strong? Maybe not yet, not quite. But he thinks he’ll get there.

* * *

They spend the afternoon in the library with strict instructions that they’re not to be disturbed.

It stings when Stiles sees his father’s face when he shifts for him, shows his claws and fangs for the first time and John flinches just a little. Stiles shifts back slowly, step by step, showing his control, letting his father observe for himself the way the claws retract seamlessly.

“Gods, son,” his father says, and he sounds broken. “hearing it’s one thing, but to see you like that…”

“Like what?” Stiles challenges, annoyed. He doesn't need anyone's pity. “Stronger? Faster? Able to heal my wounds?” To make his point he extends a claw and makes a shallow cut across his wrist. It stings, but it’s gone in seconds, healed before his father can open his mouth. “Being a werewolf’s not the terrible thing you think it is, Dad.”

 _“Stiles,”_ Peter says, a hint of warning in his tone, and Stiles closes his mouth before he gets carried away. Peter’s right - that’s not what they’re here for. Peter gives Stiles a tiny nod. “Stiles is right though, John. Lycanthropy’s hardly a fate worse than death.”

His father’s still staring at Stiles’s wrist. “Stiles doesn’t understand, Peter. I _saw_ Great-Uncle Mieczyslaw. I was a child, and I snuck down to the basement, because it was forbidden so of course that meant I had to look.” Stiles snorts. “I saw him, curled on the floor and whimpering, and he saw _me._ He came as close as he could, as close as the chains would let him, and all he could say was ‘ _please.’_ He was barely human.”

Peter shakes his head. “He was feral,” he says quietly. “If, after he was turned, they’d sent him to Hale, to a pack, he would have been fine. But they took a new wolf with no control and chained him up alone, kept him from his kind and from the moon. Of course he went mad. It would be like taking an infant and locking them away alone as soon as they were born, and expecting them to thrive.”

John’s head snaps up at that. “It’s - who would do that?”

“Nobody,” Peter answers, his tone gentle. “That’s my point. What happened was terrible, but that’s not how wolves are.”

John’s silent for a few minutes, and Stiles can see him thinking it through. “I guess not,” he says finally.

It’s easier after that. They talk, and Peter answers their questions, tears down the lies they’ve been told, replacing it with truth about pack and family and how they’re the same, about how the transformation isn’t the enemy but instead something to be harnessed and used to a wolf’s advantage.

At the end of it Chris looks distinctly like he’s had the rug pulled from under him. Stiles’s dad is only slightly better. But there’s understanding now, instead of fear and mistrust, so Stiles counts it a win. The other thing that happens is that after watching and listening carefully, out of the blue Melissa says, ”So if someone had a condition? Say, a weakness of the lungs. Would the bite cure it? And would you be willing to give it?”

It’s then that Stiles knows it’s going to be all right.

* * *

They do it all again the next day, when Victoria Argent and her daughter Allison arrive for the wedding. Stiles finds Victoria intimidating to say the least, but he’s also impressed with her willingness to listen when her husband tells her they’ve been wrong all this time and asks her to at least hear Stiles and Peter out. Her questions are measured, sensible. Her tone is careful, her face impassive, but Victoria takes in everything she’s told with a nod as Chris clutches her hand and looks at her like she’s hung the moon.

Their daughter sits with her parents, giving Stiles shy smiles. He offers to take Allison for a walk through the gardens, because he can tell Victoria has more questions for Peter, ones that perhaps she doesn’t want her daughter to hear.

Victoria nods gratefully at the suggestion and Stiles extends an arm and takes Allison outside. Once it’s just the two of them she’s a little more forthcoming, and it’s obvious she’s as delightful as the day is long. She’s adorable, all curls and dimples, and looking at her stern parents Stiles takes a moment to wonder where she gets her engaging nature from. Maybe, he muses, her parents were like that once, before they spent their lives fighting a senseless war.

Stiles is walking Allison round the rose gardens when they run into Scott, who’s cutting a bouquet. “For your mother?” Stiles asks, nodding at the flowers.

“I thought she’d like them.” Scott gives a soft smile and ducks his head, inexplicably blushing when he sees Allison.

Stiles looks between them and sees that Allison’s cheeks are flushed pink as well. “Scott, this is Allison Argent,” he offers. “Allison, Scott McCall, my soon to be step-brother.” Allison and Scott both exchange greetings, casting looks at each other from under their eyelashes.

Scott joins them for the rest of their walk, and Stiles hangs back and watches as Scott and Allison fumble their way through a conversation together. Scott shyly asks if perhaps Allison will grant him a dance at the wedding tomorrow, and she nods vigorously. Stiles has to fight back a smile.

He knows smitten when he sees it.

* * *

The day of the wedding dawns bright and clear, and when Stiles drags himself away from the warmth of his husband’s body and goes down to the kitchen he finds his father pacing urgently. When he sees Stiles he brightens up a little, but continues to pace.

“Pre wedding nerves?” Stiles guesses.

“You have no idea,” his father mutters.

Stiles shoots him an unimpressed look. “I might have an idea or two,” he reminds his father archly. “At least you got to choose your bride.”

John winces. “I deserved that, didn’t I?”

“Yes. Now tell me why you’re nervous.” Stiles settles in at the long table and indicates his father should join him.

“Melissa’s too good for me. I keep waiting for her to change her mind,” John confesses.He sits down as close to Stiles as he can, his face creased with worry. “You don’t think she’s marrying me just because of the baby?”

“How long were you courting before this?”

John's frown is replaced with a soft expression. “We were both interested for a long time, but it was oh, six months ago that we finally took steps.”

Stiles never could hold a grudge. “She adores you,” he says, “and you adore her.”

John lets out a deep breath. “I know. I’m just – it’s a big step.”

“I can’t think of anyone better to keep you in line,” Stiles says, leaning in and bumping shoulders.

His dad nods at that. “Maybe you’re right. She’s a woman and a half.”

“I hope you’ll be as happy as Peter and I,” Stiles says softly.

John looks slightly sheepish. “I don’t deserve your good wishes, Stiles.”

“Maybe not, but you have them regardless.” Stiles drapes an arm around his dad's shoulders, enjoying the contact, and his dad leans into the touch.

“Thanks, son.” 

They break apart and Stiles shoos his father off to get prepared. “The wedding’s at noon – you only have four hours to look respectable,” he teases.

* * *

Melissa looks radiant as she walks down the aisle and John is every bit the proud groom, all traces of his earlier nervousness gone. Stiles leans into Peter’s side as they watch the ceremony, and a part of him wishes they could do it all again and mean it this time, but he brushes the thought aside, because they got there in the end, didn’t they?

Afterwards there’s the feast, all toasts and good wishes to the new queen and a general air of merriment. If Melissa looks a little pensive, everyone is kind enough not to mention it. Stiles pities her, and telling himself that she’s better prepared for the bedding than he ever was doesn’t make him feel any better. Thankfully it’s only the members of court who have to witness the claiming, and Stiles and Peter aren’t included. 

When the happy couple disappear to do their duty, Stiles distracts himself by watching Scott flirt shamelessly with Allison. One dance soon becomes two becomes three becomes four, and they don’t look like parting anytime soon. Scott looks starstruck, hanging on Allison’s every word. Stiles thinks about Melissa’s question about Scott taking the bite, and wonders how the Argents will cope if their daughter falls for a werewolf. It’ll certainly make things interesting.

He pulled from his thoughts by a hand on his waist. “Care to dance, husband?” Peter murmurs in his ear.

Stiles breaks into a smile and turns, placing his hands on Peter’s shoulders and pulling him close so their foreheads are touching. “I didn’t know you danced?”

Peter gives a small shrug. “I don’t normally. But you look very fetching lamb, and I’ll take any excuse to hold you close.”

“Flatterer,” Stiles accuses mildly, but he lets Peter steer him to the dance floor, where he proves surprisingly adept. They dance past Scott and Allison, and Scott tries to communicate via eyebrow with Stiles - Stiles isn’t sure _exactly_ what Scott’s trying to tell him, but he thinks it might be “A girl likes me, Stiles!”

Peter catches the interaction and echoes Stiles’s earlier reflections. “If young McCall takes the bite, the Argents may have to increase their tolerance of werewolves sooner rather than later.”

“You asked him?” Stiles’s voice is quiet against the shell of Peter’s ear as he leans into him, enjoying the contact.

“Mmm. He’s considering his options. Melissa seems to think another winter like the last one could be too much for his lungs to take.”

Stiles remembers the month Scott spent in bed last year, his chest making strange wheezes and crackling sounds when he drew breath, and he thinks Melissa might be right. He genuinely hopes Scott chooses the bite.

They do a few more turns of the dance floor before Peter stretches and yawns exaggeratedly. “I do believe it’s time we retired,” he says, and the glint in his eye suggests sleep is the last thing on his mind.

Stiles lets out an obvious yawn of his own. “I think you’re right. Let me say goodnight to the happy couple.”

He gives Melissa and his father a hug and wishes them well, telling them he and Peter are retiring for the night. It probably doesn’t lend his tale of tiredness any credibility at all that he almost skips out of the room, tugging Peter along behind him.

* * *

They’re slow to wake the next day but then, most of the castle is, the revelry having gone on into the early hours of the morning. While Peter sleeps on, Stiles spends a few minutes reflecting on the events of the past few days. When Stiles went on his rant, his father actually apologized for interfering and keeping secrets, and that’s something Stiles never thought he’d see. His father’s heartfelt explanation of, “I just wanted to keep you safe,” had rung true, but Stiles had still extracted a promise that his dad would never again meddle in Stiles’s marriage. It had felt good, to get his grievances out of his system, but it’s not something he’s in any hurry to repeat.

Stiles watches Peter sleep, tracing a finger gently down the scar on his face, the mark that had once seemed terrifying, but that Stiles now sees as a sign of courage and devotion. Peter hums at the touch as his eyes flutter open, and Stiles is rewarded with a slow, sensual smile, the one that means Peter has _plans._

Sure enough, Peter tries to convince Stiles that they could stay in bed just a little longer, sliding a hand down the cleft of Stiles’ ass in a not-so subtle hint, but Stiles reminds Peter that they have to ride today, so Stiles needs to be in a fit state to sit on a horse, werewolf healing or no.

Peter pouts, and Stiles ignores it. “Just wait till we’re camped out tonight,” he promises, and then he pulls the blankets off and gives Peter’s ass a playful slap. “Come on, we have things to do.” Peter looks distinctly unimpressed, but he does get out of bed.

Stiles is eager to get moving. He’s enjoyed their visit, but it’s time to go home.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...IN MY DEFENSE  
> I've been sick. Like, I went to Perth, stayed an extra day because I was too ill to drive back, and have spent a week in bed on antibiotics.  
> But it's finally done!

Stiles is pulling branches into a heap and stocking the firepits for tomorrow’s full moon when he spots a figure riding towards him. Stiles can tell who it is even at a distance, the silhouette of the long lean body unmistakable. “Peter,” Stiles calls. “Chris is here.”

In the months since the treaty it’s become more common, traveling between the kingdoms – Stiles went back to Beacon for a full week when his baby brother was born - but Chris normally sends a messenger or envoy first, so Stiles knows something’s afoot.

Peter raises a hand in greeting to Chris as he approaches. Chris doesn’t return it though, and his mouth is a tight line. Before he’s even dismounted, he says, “There’s a problem.” 

Peter makes a hmming sound and drawls, ”Let me guess. Given the time frame of your visit, you’re here to tell me that not all the girls in Argent were afraid of the big bad wolf?”

Chris’s frown deepens as he gets off his horse and they sit down at one of the outdoor tables. “It’s not funny, Peter. What am I supposed to do with a werewolf baby?”

Stiles’s head whips around at that. “Sorry, what?”

Chris sighs, a sound from deep in his bones. “During the last battle, some of the Hale warriors got friendly some of the local girls, and now three of them have given birth to werewolves. One of the mothers has refused to raise the child and left it on my doorstep.”

Peter cocks an eyebrow. “And now you have a small furry problem.”

Chris nods. “Precautions weren’t taken, and when the birth took place the child had golden eyes. The mother doesn’t want this baby, and my people won’t be kind to a werewolf child.” Something in the way he says it has Stiles paying attention, and Peter must pick up on the same thing.

“This must have happened in the past, Chris,” Peter says quietly. “What happened to the war babies before?”

Chris can’t meet his gaze. “My father – he had a very strict policy regarding what he called abominations.”

Stiles’s hand flies to his mouth at what Chris is implying, and his gut churns. A low, angry growl escapes Peter’s chest. “And what, if we don’t help you, you’ll continue the tradition?” he snaps out.

“No! I’m not my father,” Chris snaps back.

Stiles cringes at that, and Peter mutters, “Sorry. That was unfair.”

Chris takes a deep breath and turns wide, earnest eyes on them both. “I need another solution. Please?”

Stiles knows what’s going to come out of Peter’s mouth before he says it. “Bring the child here. We’ll raise it. And any others,” Peter says shortly.

Stiles immediately adds, “The mothers are welcome too, if they wish.” Peter tilts his head as if to say _really?_ Stiles nods. “No child should be without their mother if it can be helped.”

Chris’s whole body, which he’d been holding tight as a bowstring, slumps a little. “Thank god,” he breathes. “The cart with the mothers and babes is a few hours behind.”

Apparently Stiles isn’t the only one who’s worked out that the Alpha of Hale is as soft as butter.

* * *

Over the past six months it’s become obvious that Stiles’s role is to be the face of Hale, to soften the harsh image of the wolves and make them palatable. People know him first and foremost as the Crown Prince, the boy who smiles and jokes and has time for anyone, so even though he’s as much a wolf as Peter, he’s somehow less threatening.

Thus, when the cart rolls in later in the day, it’s Stiles who meets it. Stiles can’t help the way his heart squeezes when he sees the girls – they’re obviously terrified but trying to hide it, and he remembers that feeling only too well. So he greets his guests as they disembark - two mothers and three children - assures them they can stay or go as they please, but if they did want to raise their children as part of the pack they’re welcome. Peter’s disappeared somewhere but Chris is there, confirming what Stiles has said. Stiles is handed the parentless baby, and finds himself staring at pale eyes and a shock of vivid red hair. As soon as is polite, he passes the infant back, saying he can't be trusted not to drop her, which makes the girls giggle. 

Everyone’s heard what happened of course, so the new arrivals find themselves the centre of attention, their babies cooed over and quietly stolen for subtle scenting before being returned to their mothers. Stiles can only imagine it’s overwhelming, but he also notes that the babies seem remarkably content to be passed around the pack.

He lets Erica take the women and the babies to one of the guest houses and settle them in, and waits to hear back from her. She hasn’t taken the bite yet, so he figures her presence as another human will be reassuring. Plus, he knows she’ll want a chance to fuss over the babies.

Erica’s back four hours later. “According to Callie and Sophie, the mother really doesn’t want that baby. She’s engaged to a man back home, says it was a mistake, an indiscretion, and just wants put this behind her.”

Stiles can’t imagine it, but he also isn’t in a position to judge. “Then I suppose we’ll have to find a willing family.”

At that Erica perks up. “Oh, Cora took one look at the baby and put in her claim. Says she’s the only one qualified to deal with a redhead.” Stiles snorts – Cora’s wife is gorgeous and terrifying, a banshee, and sports spectacular red hair. They already have one child, and he knows there’s been talk of another.

And the thing is, whoever the babies go to, they whole pack will raise them regardless. It had taken some getting used to at first, the way the children bounced from person to person, always sure of their welcome, family boundaries so blurred Stiles wasn’t even sure they existed anymore, but as Peter had pointed out, “It’s all part of pack, lamb.” There are days when Stiles will come home to find Peter with a small boy in his lap, eyes wide as saucers as he listens to Peter spin some yarn or another, and later he’ll discover that said child has six brothers and sisters and just needed some quiet time, and Peter will never say no to the pups.

“What about the other girls? Do they want to stay?” Stiles wonders aloud.

Erica shrugs. “It hasn’t even been a day, sweet prince. Give them a chance to think about it.”

Stiles supposes that’s fair.

* * *

The next morning when Stiles takes Peter over to meet their guests, there’s a horse tied out the front and a pair of boots at the door. Peter looks at the horse and the boots and nods to himself. “I wondered if he’d arrived yet,” he murmurs to Stiles.

Stiles shoots Peter a questioning look, and Peter says, ”It’s a small army. It wasn’t hard to track down the likely fathers.”

When they go inside, they find one of Peter’s warriors sprawled across a couch with at a baby in the crook of his arm. One of the young girls is sitting next to him, and the pair of them are making cow eyes at each other. The young man looks at Peter and blushes slightly, dipping his head. “Alpha. This is Callie. She’d like to – I mean we –“ he stops and catches his breath before trying again. “I’d like to ask her to stay, if that’s all right?”

Peter turns to the girl. “You do know you don’t have to associate with this idiot to be welcome, don’t you Callie?” The young man looks like he’s about to object but Peter holds up one hand. Peter crouches down so he’s not towering over the girl, and says quietly, “I mean it. You and your baby are welcome regardless.”

“I’d - I think I’d like to stay? There’s nothing for me in Argent. And Brett’s so sweet.” The look she gives her wolf is nothing short of besotted.

Peter gives her one of his softer smiles. “In that case, I’ll show you around the place.”

* * *

In the end, the mothers stay too.

It goes a long way to convincing the women when on the night of the full moon, their first night there, Peter declares that he’ll stay back for a while to care for his newest pack members, because he knows they’ll be restless. He spends the evening curled protectively round the little bundles, hushing them when they start to grizzle and soothing them with his tuneless humming.

Once the babies are solidly asleep for the night, Peter hands them back with no hesitation, stands, and takes Stiles’s hand. “If you’ll excuse me ladies,” he says quietly, “I have a date with my husband in the woods.”

And then he turns his back on the shocked girls, strips, and shifts into his wolf form. They giggle and gasp, but Stiles just swats Peter gently on the rump. “You could have waited. Not everyone wants to see your backside,” he scolds. Peter makes an amused chuffing sound and nudges Stiles towards the path, a clear sign to hurry up. Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine, bossywolf. I’m coming.”

Stiles can tell their guests are more fascinated than anything, so he makes a point of shifting slowly, extending a careful clawed hand for them to ooh and aah over before Peter gives an impatient yip, and Stiles lets himself be herded forwards, muttering under his breath about impatience and good manners.

Seeing Peter get scolded breaks the tension, snuffs out that base fear of the wolf, (although given why they’re here Stiles doubts either of the girls were ever _that_ afraid), and as he takes off running Stiles has a certainty that they’ll stay, just for the freedom.

It takes them a week to make a final decision, but as Stiles suspected, the lure of an unfettered lifestyle, plus the assurance that they’ll have all the help they need to raise their wolf children persuades them.

Callie moves in with Brett, and Stiles can smell the contentment coming off the pair of them.

Sophie declares that she’s not sure who the father of her little girl is and doesn’t care to find out particularly, but that she still wants to stay. She says that it’s worth it for the hot springs, the pretty men, and the fact she doesn’t have to take care of her aging grandfather here. 

Stiles tells Peter that evening that he thinks those are all perfectly sound reasons, and Peter agrees with a laugh. “We are very pretty, it’s true,” he says, tossing his hair exaggeratedly. He’s sitting in the big armchair and Stiles is on the floor between his legs, leaning back.

Stiles rolls his eyes “You’re pretty. I’m a haystack,” he grumbles. “I might cut this off.” He indicates his own hair, which he’s failed to keep in any sort of order. It’s exactly too long to be short and too short to do anything with, and Stiles hates it right now.

Peter leans down and kisses the crown of his head. “You look wild and free, princeling, and I love it. But I can fix it for you if you like?” Which of course is what Stiles was hoping he’d say. Stiles produces his brush from under the chair where he’d put it earlier, and Peter huffs out a laugh. “You have no subtlety at all lamb, I hope you know that.” Stiles doesn’t answer, because Peter’s skilled hands are working the brush through the thick tufts, and it’s heavenly. He lets out a pleased groan instead. Peter chuckles and keeps brushing.

It doesn’t take long to get the knots out, but then Peter’s fiddling and tugging at the strands. Stiles huffs, “What are you doing?”

“I’m making it presentable. It’s long enough now.”

Stiles is sceptical, because his own attempts to plait his hair have been disastrous, but he lets his head be turned this way and that, closing his eyes and giving himself over to the process, and he only opens them when Peter taps him on the shoulder and gives him a hand mirror. He has to take a moment and blink twice, because Peter’s transformed his mess into some sort of magical thing, an arrangement of rows of braids that are close to the scalp and keep his hair in order. Stiles beams as he examines himself turning his head this way and that.

He looks like a Hale.

“This is perfect. Have I told you how much I love you?”

Peter tugs gently on one earlobe. “I’m glad to hear it. Now, going to return the favor, princeling?”

Stiles tilts his head back and gives a soft smile. “Always, wolf.”

* * *

Slowly, the peace shapes their lives. 

It’s no longer considered dangerous to ride between the kingdoms. Nor is it out of the question for young couples near the border to mingle, and Peter gets more than one request for the bite from former citizens of Argent and Beacon.

The war babies thrive – Cora and Lydia’s little girl is an absolute terror, her temper matching her hair, and more than once Stiles watches, entertained, as she ducks and weaves naked between her mothers’ legs, tottering her way across the compound and refusing to take a bath. 

Erica takes the bite, and Stiles doesn’t cry when he watches her and Boyd have their wedding under a full moon. It’s just smoke from the fires, that’s all.

Scott also takes the bite, and who knew? Once he can breathe, he turns out to be a skilled fighter, strong and fast and light on his feet. Peter invites him to move to Hale, and Scott leaps at the chance. Stiles is glued to his side the first week he’s there, staying out late talking and laughing to the point where Peter actually sulks, complaining that he’s been replaced.

Stiles takes the time that night to make it up to him, and the next day when Scott knocks on the door Peter answers it shirtless and scruffy, trousers unlaced, and tells him Stiles is busy for the rest of the day. Scott blushes and takes the hint, and Peter spends the day with Stiles pinned to the bed, taking him apart and muttering possessively the whole time.

“Jealouswolf,” Stiles teases later, when he can finally form words.

Peter pulls him closer and buries his face in Stiles’ hair. “Not jealous. Possessive. Completely different.”

Stiles opens his mouth to argue but then Peter’s straddling him and kissing him, pinning his hands above his head, and Stiles forgets what he was going to say.

* * *

It’s become routine for Stiles to ride between the three kingdoms, ferrying news, putting out spot fires, and generally making sure the alliance runs smoothly. It works for all of then – it means Stiles gets to visit his dad and Melissa and baby Alexander, and sometimes Scott comes with him if he’s going to Argent, and he and Allison flirt under the watchful eye of her parents.

This time though, Stiles is alone. He doesn’t rush to Argent, but he doesn’t dally either. When he thinks back to his first experience riding these plains he can’t help but laugh. He must have been a sight, a scared skinny thing hanging on for dear life and pretending he could ride. 

Now though? Stiles has grown into himself in the two years since his wedding. He’s slightly taller than Peter, and just as tanned and muscled as his husband. He finally has hair long enough to tie back without braiding it first, and he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t love it when Peter runs his fingers through it.

He and Peter run the pack together, and while Peter is always and undeniably the Alpha, and Stiles would never contradict him, there are times when Peter will take one look at Stiles’s face and abruptly change his mind. Stiles counts those times as proof of Peter’s growing faith in his abilities, and always makes time to be extra sweet to his husband afterwards.

He rides through the gates of the city to be greeted by Chris. That in itself isn’t uncommon, but Chris has an urgent set to his jaw that Stiles recognises. “Stiles. Thank the gods, your timing’s perfect.” Stiles swings down out of the saddle and follows as Chris leads him back to his house, and when they go inside Stiles’s mouth drops open at the sight that greets him.

There’s a baby.

No. Not a baby, a toddler. She has wide, dark eyes and jet black hair, and round cheeks smudged with tears. She’s squirming in Alison’s hold, eyes flashing as she hiccups out a sob.

Stiles doesn’t think twice, scooping her up into his arms and making soothing noises. The child immediately settles, burying her face against Stiles’s neck and scenting him. Stiles rocks her, shuffling from foot to foot. “War baby?” he mouths over the baby’s shoulder at Chris. But no, he thinks. That doesn’t quite fit.

Chris steps in close, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the toddler. “I can only assume she’s a result of the war, the age fits, but her mother must have kept it quiet. She was killed in an accident and this little one was taken in by an aunt. The first I knew of her existence was when the woman showed up today hysterical, saying she couldn’t keep a werewolf.”

Stiles isn’t prepared for the wave of protectiveness that washes over him, along with one overriding thought. _He’s keeping her_. “There’s definitely no other family?”

Chris shakes his head. Stiles hoists his load up to settle her against his chest, and she tips her head back and blinks at him, giving a sleepy smile. Stiles melts at that, and takes it as proof that this baby’s meant for them. He wonders exactly how he’s going to break it to Peter that they’re keeping this one.

“You’ll take her?” Chris asks quietly.

Stiles nods. “Does she have a name?”

“Madeleine.”

Stiles mouths it silently, tries out the shape of it in his mouth, before nodding. “Hello, Madeleine,” he tells her quietly. “You’re coming home with me. You can be a surprise for your Papa.”

The baby stares at him with an expression that’s far too serious for one this young, and then breaks into a toothy smile. Stiles’s wolf rumbles with satisfaction, and he places a kiss on the top of the baby’s head.

Chris gives him a broad smile. “A surprise for papa, huh?”

“He’ll be fine with it,” Stiles says, and hopes it’s true. He’ll think about how to convince Peter on the ride back.

* * *

Stiles stays the night in Argent just so Madeleine can get used to him and he can take a crash course in infant care from Victoria, who’s slightly less terrifying than normal when she’s teaching Stiles how to ride safely with a child in the saddle. It’s almost as if she almost approves of what he’s doing.

He sets off the next morning, Maddie draped across his front with her arms around his neck, held in place with a cloth sling. He rides at a steady pace, and they stop several times to let her stretch her legs and for Stiles to change her wet diaper, but the trip’s uneventful. Stiles talks nonsense to her the whole way, tells her what a good girl she is and how Papa’s going to adore her, about her pack and her new family, and he’s not even insulted when she falls asleep as he talks.

He also comes up with a list of compelling reasons for them to keep her, just in case Peter needs convincing. He knows they could find her a family, but he doesn’t want that. Something about this child speaks to him. Just this once, Stiles is making the decision.

It takes a full day to get home, and when Stiles rides to the stables Peter’s waiting for him, a curious expression on his face. “That was a short trip. Did something happen?”

Stiles bites his lip. “Someone, not something.” He undoes the sling and turns his barely-sleeping daughter round so she’s facing Peter. “Madeleine.”

Peter’s eyebrows climb. “Stiles, did you steal a baby?” He takes a step closer, as though entranced. Madeleine rubs at her eyes with a fat fist and Stiles holds the her out to Peter and then slides out of the saddle, rolling his eyes. “No. She’s an Argent orphan, but she’s wolf. I said we’d take her.”

Peter’s expression clears. “I’m sure we can find her a home.”

“No, Peter. I thought _we’d_ take her.” He indicates between them. “We, as in you and I.”

Madelaine chooses right then to whimper and then burrow into the crook of Peter’s neck, and he pats her back and shushes her instinctively. “Did you, now?” He takes a moment to scent the baby and sighs. “Maybe we should discuss it at home.”

He turns on his heel and strides back to their house, Stiles following closely. Once they’re in the door and Peter’s settled in his chair, baby in his lap, he speaks. “Tell me the story,” he demands.

So Stiles does. He explains about the werewolf baby that slipped through the cracks, about the dead mother, about his instant and unshakeable conviction that she’s meant to be theirs. When he gets to the end of the tale, Peter regards him silently and Stiles can’t take the suspense, is desperate for an answer, so he goes on the offensive. “You said that my decisions count, right? Well, I decided – no, my wolf decided, that we need this baby. And I know you’re Alpha and it’s your call, and I know we’ve never talked about this, but at least think about it? Please?”

There’s a split second where Stiles thinks Peter’s going to refuse, but then Peter rolls his eyes. “I don’t need to think about it. You've obviously chosen her sweetheart. Who am I to object?” He drops a kiss on the baby’s head and addresses her. “Lets get you cleaned up and fed shall we, sweetness?” The little girl nods solemnly, and cuddles in closer.

* * *

Madeleine slots into their life like she’s always been there. Peter, it turns out, is frighteningly good at toddler-wrangling, and Madeleine takes to him with alacrity. It soon becomes a common sight, Peter going about his business with his little girl balanced on his shoulders, hands tugging his braids like the reins of a horse. 

She gets kidnapped by Erica and Cora in equal measure, and its almost ritual for Peter to stand on his front porch of an evening and roar “Can somebody _please_ bring my child home?” before throwing his head back in a howl, which invariably leads to Madeleine coming scampering back to her Papa, all smiles and giggles as he sweeps her up and mock-growls at her.

Stiles continues to travel, and Peter’s still busy running the pack. It means they don’t get much time alone, but Stiles figures that’s what happens when you become a family. He misses it sometimes, but when he looks at Peter piggybacking their daughter across the compound, he can’t say he really minds.

Still, it’s a surprise when he’s woken one morning before dawn by Peter shaking him gently and murmuring, ”Up, lamb.”

Stiles whines as he opens his eyes. “S’early. Why?” Peter’s sitting on the side of the bed, already dressed. Stiles is instantly alert. “Is something wrong?”

Peter chuckles. “Nothing’s wrong. But it’s been six months since Maddie arrived, and I miss you. I thought we’d take a week, go out to the cabin.”

The cabin’s a good hour’s ride from the settlement, and it’s the place pack members go when they want some alone time. They've never had the time to go before now. Stiles thinks it sounds ideal, but – “A whole week? What about Maddie? And the pack?”

Peter pulls back the blankets and tugs Stiles upright. “Erica’s taking Maddie, and Derek can manage without us.” He wraps strong arms around Stiles’s back and pulls him close. “You’re more important.” Stiles hides his smile in the crook of Peter’s neck at hearing that. When he lifts his head, Peter’s giving him a tender look. “So, princeling, shall we steal away, spend the week making love?”

There’s really only one answer to that.

“Yes, Alpha.”


End file.
